LOOKING 


TOWARD  SUNSET. 


From  Sources  Old  and  New,  Original 
and  Selected. 


BY    L.    MARIA    CHILD. 


, 


"When   the   Sun    is   setting,    cool   fall   its   gleams  upon   the   earth,   and 
shadows  lengthen  ;  but  they  all  point  toward  the  Morning." 

JEAN  PAUL  RICHTER. 

'?  I  am  fully  convinced   that  the  Soul  is  indestructible,   and  that  its 

\   activity  will  continue  through  eternity.      It  is  like  the   Sun, 

which,  to  our  eyes,  seems  to  set  in  night ;  but  it  has 

in    reality    only    gone    to    diffuse    its    light 

elsewhere. "  —  GOETHE. 


BOSTON : 

TICKNOR     AND     FIELDS. 
1865. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1864,  by 

I, .     MARIA      CHILD, 
the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  MavSsachusetts 


U  N  i  v  F.  K  s  i  T  Y    PRESS: 

WELCH,    BTGEI.  o\v,    AND    COMPANY, 

CAMBRIDGE. 


MY     DEAR     AND     HONORED     FRIENDS. 

Miss    LUCY    O  S  G  O  O  D 

AND 

Miss    HENRIETTA    SARGENT, 
This  Volume 

IS    AFFECTIONATELY    INSCRIBED, 

IN    TOKEN   OF   GRATITUDE   FOR   THEIR    EXAMPLE. 

WHICH    CONFERS    BEAUTY    AND    DIGNITY    ON    DECLINING   YEAK- 

BY   ACTIVE    USEFULNESS    AND    KINDLY    SYMPATHY 

WITH    THK    HUMAN    RACE. 


PREFACE. 


OCCASIONALLY  meet  people  who 
say  to  me,  "  I  had  many  a  pleasant 
hour,  in  my  childhood,  reading  your 
Juvenile  Miscellany ;  and  now  I  am  enjoying 
it  over  again,  with  my  own  little  folks." 

Such  remarks  remind  me  that  I  have  been  a 
long  time  in  the  world  ;  but  if  a  few  acknowl- 
edge me  as  the  household  friend  of  two  genera- 
tions, it  is  a  pleasant  assurance  that  I  have  not 
lived  altogether  in  vain. 

When  I  was  myself  near  the  fairy-land  of 
childhood,  I  used  my  pen  for  the  pleasure  of 
children  ;  and  now  that  I  am  travelling  down 
the  hill  I  was  then  ascending,  I  would  fain  give 
some  words  of  consolation  and  cheer  to  my 
companions  on  the  way.  If  the  rays  of  my 
morning  have  helped  to  germinate  seeds  that 
ripened  into  flowers  and  fruit,  I  am  grateful  to 


vi  PREFACE. 

Him,  from  whom  all  light  and  warmth  proceeds. 
And  now  I  reverently  ask  His  blessing  on  this 
attempt  to  imitate,  in  my  humble  way,  the  set- 
ting rays  of  that  great  luminary,  which  throws 
cheerful  gleams  into  so  many  lonely  old  homes, 
which  kindles  golden  fires  on  trees  whose  foliage 
is  falling,  and  lights  up  the  silvered  heads  on 
which  it  rests  with  a  glory  that  reminds  one  of 
immortal  crowns. 

L.   MARIA  CHILD. 


CON  TE  NTS. 


PAGE 

THE  FRIENDS L.  M.  Child      .     .  i 

THE  GOOD  OLD  GRANDMOTHER    .    Anonymous   ...  37 

THE  CONSOLATIONS  OF  AGE     .     .    Zschokke  ....  39 

THE  OLD  MAN  DREAMS  .     .     .     .    O.  IV.  Holmes  .     .  44 

A  RUSSIAN  LADY 46 

THE  OLD  MAN'S  SONG      ....   Anonymous  ...  51 
THE  TWENTY-SEVENTH  OF  MARCH     l-l .  C.  Bryant  .     .  52 
A  CHRISTMAS  STORY  FOR  GRAND- 
FATHER      Charles  Dickens      .  53 

JOHN  ANDERSON,  MY  Jo.     .     .     .    Robert  Burns     .     .  60 

OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME      .     .     .     .    L.  M.  Child      .     .  61 

EVERLASTING  YOUTH Edmund  H.  Sears  .  62 

LIFE Mrs.  Barbauld  .     .  68 

THE  MYSTERIOUS  PILGRIMAGE  .     .    L.  M.  Child      .     .  69 

THE  HAPPIEST  TIME Eliza  Cook    ...  81 

ODE  OF  ANACREON 84 

CICERO'S  ESSAY  ON  OLD  AGE 85 

THE  FOUNTAIN W.  Wordsworth     .  98 

A  POET'S  BLESSING Uhland    .     .     .     .  101 

BERNARD  PALISSY 102 

OLD  AGE  COMING Elizabeth  Hamilton  123 

UNMARRIED  WOMEN Z.  M.  Child.     .     .  127 


viii  CONTENTS. 

THE  OLD  MAID'S  PRAYER    .     .     .    Mrs  Tighe    ...  144 

GRANDFATHER'S  REVERIE     .     .     .    Theodore  Parker     .  146 

THE  OLD  COUPLE Anonymous  .     .     .  149 

A  STORY  OF  ST.  MARK'S  EVE  .     .    Thomas  Hood    .     .  152 

WHAT  THE  OLD  WOMAN  SAID      .    Anonymous  .     .     .  161 

THE  SPRING  JOURNEY     ....    Heber 163 

MORAL  HINTS L.  M.  Child .     .     .  164 

THE  BOYS 0.  W.  Holmes   .     .  184 

ODE  OF  ANACREON 185 

MYSTERIOUSNESS  OF  LIFE     .     .     .    Mountford     .     .     .  186 

THE  GRANDMOTHER'S  APOLOGY    .    Alfred  Tennyson     .  189 

THE  ANCIENT  MAN J.  P.  Richter     .     .  193 

MILTON  ON  HIS  Loss  OF  SIGHT 210 

LETTER  FROM  AN  OLD  WOMAN    .   L.  M.  Child      .     .  212 

BRIGHT  DAYS  IN  WINTER   .     .     .    John  G.  Whittier   .  223 

THE  CANARY  BIRD John  Sterling    .     .  224 

OLD  BACHELORS L.  M.  Child      .     .  225 

TAKING  IT  EASY G.  H.  Clark      .     .  238 

OLD  AUNTY Anonymous   .     .     .  241 

RICHARD  AND  KATE Robert  Bloomfidd    .  250 

LUDOVICO    CORNARO 256 

ROBIN  AND  JEANNIE Dora  Greenwell .     .  271 

A  GOOD  OLD  AGE Mountford     .     .     .  273 

MY  PSALM John  G.   Whiltier    .  276 

JOHN  HENRY  VON  DANNECKER 279 

THE  KITTEN  AND  FALLING  LEAVES    W.  Wordsworth      .  290 

DR.  DODDRIDGE'S  DREAM 292 

THE  OLD  PSALM-TUNE    ....    Harriet  B.  Stowe    .  297 

THE  LOST  BOOKS  OF  LIVY 300 

To  ONE  WHO  WISHED  ME  SIXTEEN 

YEARS  OLD Alice  Gary     .     .     .  322 


CONTENTS. 


ix 


GROWING  OLD    ....... 

EQUINOCTIAL 

EPITAPH  ON  THE  UNMATED  .  . 
A  BEAUTIFUL  THOUGHT  .  .  . 

AT  ANCHOR  

NOVEMBER     

MEDITATIONS  ON  A  BIRTHDAY  EVE 
THE  GRANDMOTHER  OF  SLAVES  . 

AULD  LANG  SYNE 

OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME      .... 

OLD  UNCLE  TOMMY 

SITTING  IN  THE  SUN 

AUNT  KINDLY 

CROSSING  OVER 

A  LOVE  AFFAIR  AT  CRANFORD     . 

To  MY  WIFE 

THE  EVERGREEN  OF  OUR  FEELINGS 
OUR  SECRET  DRAWER  .... 
THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING  .... 
THE  WORN  WEDDING  RING  .  . 
HINTS  ABOUT  HEALTH  .... 
THE  INVALID'S  PRAYER  .... 
THE  OLD  PASTOR  AND  HIS  SON  . 
REST  AT  EVENING 


Dinah  Miiloch   .     .  324 

Mrs.A.D.  T.  Whitney  334 

E-  S. 335 

Confers  Francis .     .  336 

Anonymous    .     .     .  339 
H.  W.  Beecher  .     .341 

John  Pierpont    .     ,  343 

H.J. 346 

Robert  Burns      .     .  362 

L.  M.  Child  ...  363 

M.  S. 364 

Anonymous    ,     .     .  377 

Theodore  Parker      ,  379 

Uhland     ....  383 

Mrs.  Gaskell      .     .  385 

Anonymous    .     .     .  408 

y.  P.  Richter      .     .  410 

Anonymous    ,     .     .  414 

F.  A.  B renter     .     .  416 

W.  C.  Bennett   .     .  424 

L.  M.  Child.     .     .  427 

Samuel  Johnson       .  440 

J.  P.  Richter      .     .  441 

Adelaide  A.  Procter  454 


LOOKING  TOWARD    SUNSET. 


SOURCES    OLD,    NEW,   ORIGINAL, 
AND    SELECTED. 


THE    FRIENDS. 


BY  L.  M.  CHILD. 


"  By  some  especial  care 
Her  temper  had  been  framed,  as  if  to  make 
A  being,  who,  by  adding  love  to  peace, 
Might  live  on  earth  a  life  of  happiness." 

Wordsworth. 

'N  the  interior  of  Maine  two  girls  grew 
to  womanhood  in  houses  so  near  that 
they  could  nod  and  smile  to  each  other 
while  they  were  making  the  beds  in 
the  morning,  and  chat  through  the  open  fence 
that  separated  their  gardens  when  they  went  to 
pick  currants  for  the  tea-table.  Both  were  daugh- 
ters of  farmers  ;  but  Harriet  Brown's  father  had 


2  THE  FRIENDS. 

money  in  the  bank,  while  Jane  White's  father 
was  struggling  hard  to  pay  off  a  mortgage.  Jane 
was  not  a  beauty,  but  her  fresh,  healthy  counte- 
nance was  pleasant  to  look  upon.  Her  large  blue 
eyes  had  a  very  innocent  expression,  and  there  was 
always  in  them  the  suggestion  of  a  smile,  as  if  they 
sung  the  first  note  of  a  merry  song  for  the  lips  to 
follow.  Harriet  was  the  belle  of  the  county  ;  with 
rosy  cheeks,  a  well-shaped  mouth,  and  black  eyes, 
that  were  very  bright,  without  being  luminous  from 
within.  A  close  observer  of  physiognomy  could 
easily  determine  which  of  the  girls  had  most  of 
heart  and  soul.  But  they  were  both  favorites  in 
the  village,  and  the  young  men  thought  it  was 
a  pretty  sight  to  see  them  together.  In  fact,  they 
were  rarely  seen  apart.  Their  leisure  moments, 
on  bright  winter  days,  were  spent  in  snow-balling 
each  other  across  the  garden-fence ;  and  they  kept 
up  the  sport  hilariously  long  after  their  hands  were 
numb  and  red  with  cold.  In  the  long  evenings, 
they  made  wagers  which  would  soonest  finish  a 
pair  of  socks  ;  and  merry  were  the  little  Growings 
over  the  vanquished  party.  In  spring,  they  hunt- 
ed anemones  and  violets  together.  In  autumn, 
they  filled  their  aprons  with  brilliant-colored  leaves 
to  decorate  the  mantel-piece  ;  stopping  ever  and 
anon  to  twine  the  prettiest  specimens  in  each 
other's  hair.  They  both  sat  in  the  singing-seats 
at  meeting.  Harriet's  shrill  voice  was  always 
heard  above  Jane's,  but  it  was  defective  in  mod- 


THE  FRIENDS.  3 

ulation,  while  music  flowed  through  the  warb- 
liug  voice  of  her  companion.  They  often  bought 
dresses  alike,  with  the  agreement  that,  when  the 
sleeves  were  worn,  the  two  skirts  should  be  used 
to  make  a  new  dress  for  the  one  who  first  needed 
it ;  and  shrewd  observers  remarked  that  Harriet 
usually  had  the  benefit  of  such  bargains.  Jane 
waited  assiduously  upon  her  mother,  while  Har- 
riet's mother  waited  upon  her.  One  seemed  to 
have  come  into  the  world  to  be  ministered  unto, 
and  the  other  to  minister.  Harriet  was  prim  in 
company,  and  some  called  her  rather  proud ;  but 
Jane  was  deemed  imprudent,  because  whatever 
she  said  or  did  bubbled  out  of  her  heart.  Their 
friendship  was  not  founded  on  any  harmonious 
accord  of  character  ;  few  friendships  are.  They 
were  born  next  door  to  each  other,  and  no  other 
girls  of  their  own  age  happened  to  be  near  neigh- 
bors. The  youthful  heart  runs  over  so  perpetu- 
ally, that  it  needs  another  into  which  to  pour  its 
ever-flowing  stream.  Impelled  by  this  necessity, 
they  often  shared  each  other's  sleeping  apartments, 
and  talked  late  into  the  night.  They  could  not  have 
told,  the  next  day,  what  they  had  talked  about. 
Their  conversation  was  a  continuous  movement 
of  hilarious  nothings,  with  a  running  accompani- 
ment of  laughter.  It  was  like  the  froth  of  whip- 
syllabub,  of  which  the  rustic  took  a  spoonful  into 
his  mouth,  and  finding  it  gone  without  leaving 
a  taste  behind,  he  searched  the  carpet  for  it.  The 


4  THE  FRIENDS. 

girls,  however,  never  looked  after  the  silly  bubbles 
of  their  bubbling  syllables.  Harriet  thought  Jane 
excessively  funny,  and  such  an  appreciative  audi- 
ence was  stimulus  sufficient  to  keep  her  friend's 
tongue  in  motion. 

"  O  Hatty,  the  moon  's  up,  and  it  's  as  light  as 
a  cork  !  "  exclaimed  Jane,  springing  out  of  bed  in 
the  summer's  night,  and  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow. 

"  What  a  droll  creature  you  are  !  "  replied  Hat- 
ty ;  and  they  laughed  more  heartily  than  they 
would  have  done  over  one  of  Dr.  Holmes's  wit- 
tiest sayings. 

When  merriment  subsided  into  a  more  serious 
mood,  each  gave  her  opinion  whether  Harry  Blake, 
the  young  lawyer,  or  Frank  May,  the  young  store- 
keeper, had  the  handsomest  eyes.  Jane  said, 
there  was  a  report  that  the  young  lawyer  was 
engaged  to  somebody  before  he  came  to  their  vil- 
lage ;  but  Harriet  said  she  did  n't  believe  it,  be- 
cause he  pressed  her  hand  when  they  came  home 
from  the  County  Ball,  and  he  whispered  some- 
thing, too;  but  she  did  n't  know  whether  it  would 
be  fair  to  tell  of  it.  Then  came  the  entreaty,  "  Do 
tell";  and  she  told.  And  with  various  similar 
confidings,  they  at  last  fell  asleep. 

Thus  life  flowed  on,  like  a  sunny,  babbling  brook, 
with  these  girls  of  sixteen  summers.  Fond  as  they 
were  of  recreation,  they  were  capable,  in  the  New 
England  sense  of  the  term,  and  accomplished  a 


THE  FRIENDS.  5 

great  deal  of  work.  It  was  generally  agreed  that 
Harriet  made  the  best  butter  and  Jane  the  best 
bread  that  the  village  produced.  Thrifty  fathers  said 
to  their  sons,  that  whoever  obtained  one  of  those 
girls  for  a  wife  would  be  a  lucky  fellow.  Harriet 
refused  several  offers,  and  the  rejected  beaux 
revenged  themselves  by  saying,  she  was  fishing 
for  the  lawyer,  in  hopes  of  being  the  wife  of 
a  judge,  or  a  member  of  Congress.  There  was 
less  gossip  about  Jane's  love  affairs.  Nobody  was 
surprised  when  the  banns  were  published  between 
her  and  Frank  May.  She  had  always  maintained 
that  his  eyes  were  handsomer  than  the  lawyer's. 
It  was  easy  enough  for  anybody  to  read  her  heart. 
Soon  after  Jane's  marriage  with  the  young  store- 
keeper Harriet  went  to  visit  an  uncle  in  New  York. 
There  she  attracted  the  attention  of  a  prosperous 
merchant,  nearly  as  old  as  her  father,  and  came 
home  to  busy  herself  with  preparations  for  a  wed- 
ding. Jane  expressed  surprise,  in  view  of  certain 
confidences  with  regard  to  the  young  lawyer  ;  but 
Harriet  replied  :  "  Mr.  Gray  is  a  very  good  sort 
of  man,  and  really  seems  to  be  very  much  in  love 
with  me.  And  you  know,  Jenny,  it  must  be  a 
lono-  time  before  Harry  Blake  can  earn  enough 

O  */ 

to  support  a  wife  handsomely." 

A  few  weeks  afterward,  they  had  their  parting 
interview.  They  kissed  and  shed  tears,  and  ex- 
changed lockets  with  braids  of  hair.  Jane's  voice 
was  choked,  as  she  said :  "  O  Hatty,  it  seems  so 


6  THE  FRIENDS. 

hard  that  we  should  be  separated  !  I  thought  to 
be  sure  we  should  always  be  neighbors." 

And  Harriet  wiped  her  eyes,  and  tried  to  an- 
swer cheerfully  :  "  You  must  come  and  see  me, 
dear  Jenny.  It  is  n't  such  a  great  way  to  New 
York,  after  all." 

The  next  day  Jane  attended  the  wedding  in  her 
own  simple  bridal  dress  of  white  muslin  ;  and  the 
last  she  saw  of  Harriet  was  the  waving  of  her 
white  handkerchief  from  a  genteel  carriage,  drawn 
by  two  shining  black  horses.  It  was  the  first  link 
that  had  been  broken  in  the  chain  of  her  quiet 
life  ;  and  the  separation  of  these  first  links  startles 
the  youthful  mind  with  a  sort  of  painful  surprise, 
such  as  an  infant  feels  waking  from  sleep  to  be 
frightened  by  a  strange  face  bending  over  its  cra- 
dle. She  said  to  her  husband :  "  I  did  n't  feel  at 
all  as  I  always  imagined  I  should  feel  at  Hatty's 
wedding.  It  was  so  unexpected  to  have  her  go 
off  with  that  stranger  !  But  I  suppose  she  is  the 
best  judge  of  what  is  for  her  own  happiness." 

The  void  left  by  this  separation  was  soon  filled 
by  new  pleasures  and  duties.  A  little  boy  and 
girl  came.  Then  her  husband  was  seized  with 

o 

a  disease  of  the  spine,  which  totally  unfitted  him 
for  business.  Jane  had  acquired  considerable  skill 
in  mantua-making,  which  now  proved  a  valuable 
assistance  in  the  support  of  her  family.  The  neigh- 
boring farmers  said,  "  Young  Mrs.  May  has  a  hard 
row  to  hoe."  But  her  life  was  a  mingled  cup, 


THE  FRIENDS.  7 

which  she  had  no  wish  to  exchange  for  any  other. 
Care  and  fatigue  were  sweetened  by  the  tenderness 
and  patience  of  her  household  mate,  and  bright- 
ened by  the  gambols  of  children,  who  clung  to  her 
with  confiding  love.  When  people  expressed  sym- 
pathy with  her  hard  lot,  she  answered,  cheerfully : 
"  I  am  happier  than  I  was  when  I  was  a  girl.  It 
is  a  happiness  that  I  feel  deeper  down  in  my 
heart."  This  feeling  was  expressed  in  her  face 
also.  The  innocent  blue  eyes  became  motherly 
and  thoughtful  in  their  tenderness,  but  still  a 
smile  lay  sleeping  there.  Her  husband  said  she 
was  handsomer  than  when  he  first  loved  her  ;  and 
so  all  thought  who  appreciated  beauty  of  expres- 
sion above  fairness  of  skin. 

During  the  first  year  of  her  residence  in  New 
York,  Harriet  wrote  every  few  weeks  ;  but  the 
intervals  between  her  letters  lengthened,  and  the 
apology  was  the  necessity  of  giving  dinner-parties, 
making  calls,  and  attending  to  mantua-makers. 
To  Jane,  who  was  constantly  working  to  nurse 
and  support  her  dear  ones,  they  seemed  like  letters 
in  a  foreign  language,  of  which  we  can  study  out 
the  meaning,  but  in  which  it  is  impossible  for  us  to 
think.  She  felt  herself  more  really  separated  from 
the  friend  of  her  girlhood  than  she  could  have  been 
by  visible  mountains.  They  were  not  only  living 
in  different  worlds,  but  the  ways  of  each  world  did 
not  interest  the  other.  The  correspondence  finally 
ceased  altogether,  and  years  passed  without  any 
communication. 


8  THE  FRIENDS. 

The  circle  of  Jane's  duties  enlarged.  Her  hus- 
band's parents  became  feeble  in  health  ;  they  need- 
ed the  presence  of  children,  and  could  also  assist 
their  invalid  son  by  receiving  him  into  their  house. 
So  Frank  May  and  his  wife  removed  to  their 
home,  in  a  country  village  of  Massachusetts.  Her 
parents,  unwilling  to  relinquish  the  light  of  her 
presence,  removed  with  them.  There  was,  of 
course,  great  increase  of  care,  to  which  was  added 
the  necessity  for  vigilant  economy  ;  but  the  energy 
of  the  young  matron  grew  with  the  demands  upon 
it.  Her  husband's  mother  was  a  little  unreason- 
able at  times,  but  it  was  obvious  that  sli£  consid- 
ered her  son  very  fortunate  in  his  wife ;  and  Jane 
thankfully  accepted  her  somewhat  reluctant  affec- 
tion. If  a  neighbor  alluded  to  her  numerous 
cares,  she  replied  cheerfully  :  "  Yes,  it  is  true  that 
I  have  a  good  deal  on  my  shoulders ;  but  somehow 
it  never  seems  very  heavy.  The  fact  is,"  she 
added,  smiling,  "  there  's  great  satisfaction  in  feel- 
ing one's  self  of  so  much  importance.  There  are 
my  husband,  my  two  children,  my  two  fathers, 
and  my  two  mothers,  all  telling  me  that  they 
could  n't  get  along  without  me  ;  and  I  think 

O  ~ 

that 's  blessing  enough  for  one  poor  woman.  No- 
body can  tell,  until  they  try  it,  what  a  satisfaction 
there  is  in  making  old  folks  comfortable.  They 
cling  so  to  those  that  take  good  care  of  them,  that, 
I  declare,  I  find  it  does  me  about  as  much  good  as 
it  did  to  tend  upon  my  babies."  Blessed  woman  ! 


THE  FRIENDS.  9 

she  carried  sunshine  within  her,  and  so  external 
circumstances  could  not  darken  her  life. 

The  external  pressure  increased  as  years  passed 
on.  Her  husband,  her  parents,  her  son,  departed 
from  her,  one  after  another.  Still  she  smiled 
through  her  tears,  and  said :  "  God  has  been  very 
merciful  to  me.  It  was  such  a  comfort  to  be  able 
to  tend  upon  them  to  the  last,  and  to  have  them 
die  blessing  me ! "  The  daughter  married  and 
removed  to  Illinois.  The  heart  of  the  bereaved 
mother  yearned  to  follow  her ;  but  her  husband's 
parents  were  very  infirm,  and  she  had  become 
necessary  to  their  comfort.  When  she  gave  the 
farewell  kiss  to  her  child,  she  said  :  "  There  is  no 
one  to  take  good  care  of  the  old  folks  if  I  leave 
them.  I  will  stay  and  close  their  eyes,  and  then, 
if  it  be  God's  will,  I  will  come' to  you." 

Two  years  afterward,  the  old  father  died,  but 
his  wife  survived  him  several  years.  When  the 
estates  of  both  fathers  were  settled,  there  remained 
for  the  two  widowed  women  a  small  house,  an 
acre  of  land,  and  a  thousand  dollars  in  the  bank. 
There  they  lived  alone.  The  rooms  that  had 
been  so  full  of  voices  were  silent  now.  Only,  as 
Jane  moved  about,  "  on  household  cares  intent," 
she  was  often  heard  singing  the  tune  her  dear 
Frank  used  to  sing  under  the  apple-tree  bv  her 
window,  in  their  old  courting  days  :  — 

"The  moon  was  shining  silver  bright, 
No  cloud  the  eye  could  view; 

1* 


10  THE  FRIENDS. 

Her  lover's  step,  in  silent  night, 
Well  pleased,  the  damsel  knew." 

Sometimes  the  blue  eyes  moistened  as  she  sang ; 
but,  ere  the  tears  fell,  tender  memories  would 
modulate  themselves  into  the  tune  of  "  Auld  lang 
syne."  And  sometimes  the  old  mother,  who  sat 
knitting  in  the  sunshine,  would  say  :  "  Sing  that 
again,  Jenny.  How  my  old  man  used  to  love  to 
hear  you  sing  it !  Don't  you  remember  he  used 
to  say  you  sung  like  a  thrush  ?  "  Jenny  would 
smile,  and  say,  "  Yes,  mother,"  and  sing  it  over 
again.  Then,  tenderly  adapting  herself  to  the  old 
woman's  memories,  she  would  strike  into  "  John 
Anderson,  my  Jo,"  to  which  her  aged  companion 
would  listen  with  an  expression  of  serene  satisfac- 
tion. It  was  indeed  a  pleasure  to  listen ;  for 
Jenny's  sweet  voice  remained  unbroken  by  years  ; 
its  tones  were  as  silvery  as  her  hair.  Time,  the 
old  crow,  had  traversed  her  face  and  left  his  foot- 
prints there ;  and  the  ploughshare  of  successive 
sorrows  had  cut  deep  lines  into  the  once  smooth 
surface ;  but  the  beauty  of  the  soul  illumined  her 
faded  countenance,  as  moonlight  softens  and  glori- 
fies ruins.  When  she  carefully  arranged  the  pil- 
lows of  the  easy-chair,  the  aged  mother,  ere  she 
settled  down  for  her  afternoon's  nap,  would  often 
look  up  gratefully,  and  say,  "  Your  eyes  are  just 
as  good  as  a  baby's."  It  was  a  pleasant  sound  to 
the  dutiful  daughter's  ears,  and  made  her  forget 
the  querulous  complaints  in  which  her  infirm  com- 
panion sometimes  indulged. 


THE  FRIENDS.  H 

The  time  came  when  this  duty  was  finished 
also ;  and  Mrs.  Frank  May  found  herself  all  alone 
in  the  house,  whither  she  had  carried  her  sunshine 
thirty  years  before.  She  wrote  to  her  daughter 
that,  as  soon  as  she  could  sell  or  let  her  little 
homestead,  she  would  start  for  Illinois.  She 
busied  herself  to  hasten  the  necessary  arrange- 
ments* ;  for  her  lonely  heart  was  longing  for  her 
only  child,  whose  face  she  had  not  seen  for  seven 
years.  One  afternoon,  as  she  sat  by  the  window 
adding  up  accounts,  her  plans  for  the  journey  to 
meet  her  daughter  gradually  melted  into  loving 
reminiscences  of  her  childhood,  till  she  seemed  to 
see  again  the  little  smiling  face  that  had  looked 
to  her  the  most  beautiful  in  all  the  world,  and  to 
hear  again  the  little  pattering  feet  that  once  made 
sweetest  music  in  her  ears.  As  she  sat  thus  in 
reverie  at  the  open  window,  the  setting  sun  bright- 
ened the  broad  meadows,  crowned  the  distant 
hill-tops  with  glory,  and  threw  a  ribbon  of  gold 
across  the  wall  of  her  humble  little  room.  The 
breath  of  lilacs  floated  in,  and  with  it  came  memo- 
ries of  how  her  little  children  used  to  come  in  with 
their  arms  full  of  spring-blossoms,  filling  every 
mug  and  pitcher  they  could  find.  The  current 
of  her  thoughts  was  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  a 
wagon.  It  stopped  before  her  house.  A  stranger 
with  two  little  children  !  Who  could  it  be  ?  She 
opened  the  door.  The  stranger,  taking  off  his  hat 
and  bowing  respectfully,  said,  "  Are  you  Mrs. 
Frank  May?" 


12  THE  FRIENDS. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  replied. 

"  Well,  then,"  rejoined  he,  "  if  you  please,  I  '11 
walk  in,  for  I  've  got  some  news  to  tell  you.  But 
first  I  '11  bring  in  the  children,  for  the  little  things 
have  been  riding  all  day,  and  are  pretty  tired." 

"  Certainly,  sir,  bring  them  in  and  let  them 
rest,  and  I  will  give  them  a  cup  of  milk,"  replied 
the  kindly  matron. 

A  little  boy  and  girl  were  lifted  from  the  wagon 
and  led  in.  Mrs.  May  made  an  exclamation  of 
joyful  surprise.  The  very  vision  she  had  had  in 
her  mind  a  few  minutes  previous  stood  before  her 
bodily !  She  took  the  little  girl  in  her  arms  and 
covered  her  face  with  kisses.  "  Why,  bless  your 
little  soul !  "  she  exclaimed  ;  "  how  much  you  look 
like  my  daughter  Jenny  !  " 

"  My  name  ith  Jenny,"  lisped  the  little  one. 

"Why,  you  see,  ma'am — "  stammered  the 
stranger ;  he  paused,  in  an  embarrassed  way,  and 
smoothed  the  nap  of  his  hat  with  his  sleeve. 
"  You  see,  ma'am — "  he  resumed  ;  then,  breaking 
down  again,  he  suddenly  seized  the  boy  by  the 
hand,  led  him  up  to  her,  and  said,  "  There, 
Robin  !  that  's  your  good  old  granny,  you  've 
heard  so  much  about." 

With  a  look  of  astonishment,  Mrs.  May  said  to 
him :  "  And  where  is  my  daughter,  sir  ?  Surely 
these  little  children  would  n't  come  so  far  without 
their  mother." 

The    man    again    began    to    say,     "  You    see, 


THE  FRIENDS.  13 

ma'am  — "  but  his  heart  came  up  and  choked 
his,  voice  with  a  great  sob.  The  old  mother 
understood  its  meaning.  She  encircled  the  two 
children  with  her  arms,  and  drew  them  closely  to 
her  side.  After  a  brief  silence,  she  asked,  in  a 
subdued  voice,  "  When  did  she  die  ?  " 

Her  calmness  reassured  the  stranger,  and  with 
a  steady  voice  he  replied :  "  You  see,  ma'am,  your 
daughter  and  her  husband  have  been  neighbors  of 
mine  ever  since  they  went  to  Illinois.  There  's 
been  an  epidemic  fever  raging  among  us,  and  they 
both  died  of  it.  The  last  words  your  daughter  said 
were,  '  Carry  the  children  to  my  good  mother.' 
I  've  been  wanting  to  come  and  see  my  old  father, 
who  lives  about  three  miles  from  here,  so  I 
brought  them  along  with  me.  It  's  sorrowful 
news  for  you,  ma'am,  and  I  meant  to  have  sort 
of  prepared  you  for  it ;  but  somehow  I  lost  my 
presence  of  mind,  and  forgot  what  I  was  going  to 
say.  But  I  'm  glad  to  see  you  so  sustained  under 
it,  ma'am." 

"  I  thank  God  that  these  are  left,"  she  replied  ; 
and  she  kissed  the  little  faces  that  were  upturned 
to  hers  with  an  expression  that  seemed  to  say  they 
thought  they  should  like  their  grandmother. 

u  I  'm  so  glad  you  're  helped  to  take  it  so,"  re- 
joined the  stranger.  "  Your  daughter  always  told 
me  you  was  a  woman  that  went  straight  ahead 
and  did  your  duty,  trusting  the  Lord  to  bring 
you  through." 


14  THE  FRIENDS. 

"  I  am  forgetting  my  duty  now,"  she  replied. 
"  You  must  be  hungry  and  tired.  If  you  '11  drive 
to  Neighbor  Harrington's  barn,  he  will  take  good 
care  of  your  horse,  and  I  will  prepare  your  sup- 
per." 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  ma'am  ;  but  I  must  jog  on 
to  my  old  father's,  to  take  supper  with  him." 

Some  boxes  containing  the  clothing  of  the  chil- 
dren and  their  mother  were  brought  in  ;  and,  hav- 
ing deposited  them,  the  stranger  departed  amid 
thanks  and  benedictions. 

Mrs.  Harrington  had  seen  the  wagon  stop  at 
Mrs.  May's  door,  and  go  off  without  the  children. 
Being  of  an  inquiring  mind,  she  straightway  put 
on  her  cape-bonnet,  and  went  to  see  about  it.  She 
found  her  worthy  neighbor  pinning  towels  round 
the  children's  necks,  preparatory  to  their  supper 
of  brown  bread  and  molasses,  which  they  were  in 
a  great  hurry  to  eat. 

"  Why  who  on  earth  have  you  got  here  !  "  ex- 
claimed Neighbor  Harrington. 

"  They  are  my  daughter's  children,"  replied 
Mrs.  May.  "  Bless  their  little  souls  !  if  I  'd  have 
known  they  were  coming,  I  'd  have  had  some 
turnovers  ready  for  them." 

"  I  guess  you  '11  find  they  '11  make  turnovers 
enough,"  replied  Mrs.  Harrington  smiling.  "  That 
boy  looks  to  me  like  a  born  rogue.  But  where  's 
your  daughter  ?  I  did  n't  see  any  woman  in  the 
wagon." 


THE   TRIENDS.  15 

"  The  Lord  has  taken  her  to  himself,"  replied 
Mrs  May,  in  quivering  tones. 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  "  exclaimed  Neighbor  Har- 
rington, raising  both  hands.  "  Bless  me  !  if  I  'd 
known  that,  I  would  n't  have  come  right  in  upon 
you  so  sudden." 

They  sat  down  and  began  to  talk  over  the  par- 
ticulars which  the  stranger  had  related.  Mean- 
while, the  children,  in  hungry  haste,  were  daubing 
their  chins  and  fingers  with  molasses.  The  little 
four-year-old  Jenny  was  the  first  to  pause.  Draw- 
ing a  long  breath,  expressive  of  great  satisfaction, 
she  lisped  out,  "  O  Bubby !  larthiz  top  on  bread  ! 
what  can  be  dooder  ?  " 

Robin,  who  was  two  years  her  senior,  and  felt  as 
if  he  were  as  much  as  ten,  gave  a  great  shout  of 
laughter,  and  called  out,  "  O  Granny  !  you  don't 
know  how  funny  Sissy  talks." 

Grandmother  went  with  a  wet  towel  to  wipe 
their  hands  and  faces,  and  when  she  heard  what 
the  little  Tot  had  said,  she  could  not  help  smiling, 
notwithstanding  the  heaviness  of  her  heart.  As 
for  Neighbor  Harrington,  she  laughed  outright. 

"  You  see  they  are  just  as  well  satisfied  as  they 
would  have  been  with  a  dozen  turnovers,"  said 
she.  "  But  this  is  a  sad  blow  for  you,  Neighbor 
May ;  coming,  too,  just  at  the  time  when  you 
were  taking  so  much  comfort  in  the  thoughts  of 
going  to  see  your  daughter  ;  and  it  will  be  a  pretty 
heavy  load  for  a  woman  of  your  years  to  bring  up 
these  orphans." 


16  THE  FRIENDS. 

"  O,  it 's  wonderful  how  the  dispensations  of 
Providence  are  softened  for  us  poor  weak  mortals," 
replied  Mrs.  May.  "  Only  think  what  a  mercy  it 
is  that  I  have  these  treasures  left  ?  Why,  she 
looks  so  much  like  her  dear  mother,  that  I  seem  to 
have  my  own  little  Jenny  right  over  again  ;  and  I 
can't  seem  to  realize  that  it-  is  n't  so.  You  see, 
Neighbor  Harrington,  that  softens  the  blow  won- 
derfully. As  for  bringing  up  the  children,  I  have 
faith  that  the  Lord  will  strengthen  those  who  trust 
in  him." 

"  That 's  just  like  you,"  rejoined  Neighbor  Har- 
rington. "  You  always  talk  in  that  way.  You 
always  seem  to  think  that  what  happens  is  the 
best  that  could  happen.  You  're  pretty  much  like 
this  little  one  here.  If  you  don't  get  tarts  and 
turnovers,  you  smack  your  lips  and  say,  '  Lasses 
top  on  bread  !  what  can  be  gooder  ?  ' 

The  neighbors  bade  each  other  a  smiling  good- 
night. When  Mrs.  Harrington  returned  home, 
she  told  her  husband  the  mournful  news,  and 
added,  "  Mrs.  May  don't  seem  to  feel  it  so  much 
as  I  should  think  she  would."  Yet  the  good 
grandmother  dropped  manv  tears  on  the  pillow 
where  those  little  orphans  slept ;  and  kneeling  by 
their  bedside,  she  prayed  long  and  fervently  for 
support  and  guidance  in  rearing  the  precious  souls 
thus  committed  to  her  charge. 

She  had  long  been  unused  to  children  ;  and  they 
did,  as  Neighbor  Harrington  had  predicted,  make 


THE  FRIENDS.  17 

plenty  of  turnovers  in  the  house.  Rojbin  had 
remarkable  gifts  in  that  line.  Endless  were  his 
variations  of  mischief.  Sometimes  the  stillness  of 
the  premises  was  suddenly  disturbed  by  a  tremen- 
dous fluttering  and  cackling,  caused  by  his  efforts 
to  catch  the  cockerel.  The  next  thing,  there  was 
the  cat  squalling  and  hissing,  because  he  was 
pulling  her  backward  by  the  tail.  Then  he  was 
seized  with  a  desire  to  explore  the  pig's  sleeping 
apartment,  and  by  that  process  let  him  out  into 
the  garden,  and  had  the  capital  fun  of  chasing  him 
over  flowers  and  vegetables.  Once  when  the  pig 
upset  little  Sissy  in  his  rounds,  he  had  to  lie  down 
and  roll  in  the  mud  himself,  with  loud  explosions 
of  laughter.  Quiet  little  Jenny  liked  to  make 
gardens  by  sticking  flowers  in  the  sand,  but  it 
particularly  pleased  him  to  send  them  all  flying 
into  the  air,  at  the  point  of  his  boot.  When  the 
leaves  were  gay  with  autumn  tints,  she  would 
bring  her  apron  full  and  sit  at  grandmother's  feet 
weaving  garlands  for  the  mantel-piece  ;  and  it  was 
Master  Robin's  delight  to  pull  them  to  pieces, 
and  toss  them  hither  and  yon.  It  was  wonderful 
how  patiently  the  good  grandmother  put  up  with 
his  roguish  pranks.  "  O  Robin,  dear,  don't  be- 
have so,"  she  would  say.  "  Be  a  good  boy. 
Come  !  I  want  to  see  how  fast  you  gro\v.  Take 
off  your  boots,  and  Jenny  will  take  off  hers,  and 
stand  even,  and  then  we  '11  see  which  is  the 
tallest." 


18  THE  FRIENDS. 

"  O,  I  'm  ever  so  much  taller.  I  'm  almost  a 
man,"  responded  Robin,  kicking  off  his  boots. 

Honest  little  Jenny  stood  squarely  and  demurely 
while  grandmother  compared  their  heights.  But 
roguish  Robin  raised  himself  as  much  as  possible. 
To  hide  his  mirth,  he  darted  out  of  doors  as  soon 
as  it  was  over,  calling  Jenny  after  him.  Then  he 
gave  her  a  poke,  that  toppled  her  half  over,  and 
said,  with  a  chuckle,  "  Sissy,  I  cheated  grand- 
mother. I  stood  tiptoe.  But  don't  you  tell!  " 

But  wild  as  Robin  was,  he  dearlv  loved  his 
grandmother,  and  she  loved  him  better  than  any- 
thing else,  excepting  little  Jenny.  When  Neigh- 
bor Harrington  said,  "  I  should  think  that  boy 
would  wear  your  life  out,"  she  answered,  with  a 
smile :  "  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  with- 
out the  dear  little  creatures.  I  always  liked  to 
be  called  by  my  Christian  name,  because  it  sounds 
more  hearty.  There  's  nobody  to  call  me  Jenny 
now.  The  little  ones  call  me  granny,  and  the 
neighbors  call  me  old  Mrs.  Frank  May.  But  I 
have  a  little  Jenny,  and  every  time  I  hear  her 
name  called,  it  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  was  young 
again.  But  what  I  like  best  is  to  hear  her  tuning 
up  her  little  songs.  The  little  darling  sings  like 
a  robin." 

"  Then  she  sings  like  me"  exclaimed  her  ubiq- 
uitous brother,  who  had  climbed  up  to  the  open 
window,  holding  on  by  the  sill.  "  I  can  whistle 
most  any  tune  ;  cant  I  ?  " 


THE  FRIENDS.  19 

"  Yes,  dear,  you  whistle  like  a  quail,"  replied 
his  grandmother. 

Satisfied  with  this  share  of  praise,  down  he 
dropped,  and  the  next  minute  they  saw  him 
rushing  down  the  road,  in  full  chase  after  a  pass- 
ing dog.  Mrs.  May  laughed,  as  she  said  :  "  It 
seems  as  if  he  was  in  twenty  places  at  once. 
But  he  's  a  good  boy.  There  's  nothing  the  mat- 
ter with  him,  only  he  's  so  full  of  fun  that  it 
will  run  over  all  the  time.  He  '11  grow  steadier, 
by  and  by.  He  brought  in  a  basket  of  chips  to- 
day without  upsetting  them  ;  and  he  never  made 
out  to  do  that  before.  He  's  as  jbright  as  a  steel 
button  ;  and  if  I  am  only  enabled  to  guide  him 
right,  he  will  make  such  a  man  as  my  dear  hus- 
band would  have  been  proud  to  own  for  a  grand- 
son. I  used  to  think  it  was  impossible  to  love 
anything  better  than  I  loved  my  little  ones ;  but 
I  declare  I  think  a  grandmother  takes  more 
comfort  in  her  grandchildren  than  she  did  in 
her  own  children." 

"  Well,  you  do  beat  all,"  replied  Mrs.  Har- 
rington. "  You  've  had  about  as  much  affliction 
as  any  woman  I  know  ;  but  you  never  seem  to 
think  you  've  had  any  trouble.  I  told  my  hus- 
band I  reckoned  you  would  admit  it  was  a  tough 
job  to  bring  up  that  boy,  at  your  age  ;  but  it 
seems  you  don't." 

"  Why  the  fact  is,"  rejoined  Mrs.  May,  "  the 
troubles  of  this  life  come  so  mixed  up  with  bless- 


20  THE  FRIENDS. 

ings,  that  we  are  willing  to  endure  one  for  the 
sake  of  having  the  other ;  and  then  our  afflic- 
tions do  us  so  much  good,  that  I  reckon  they 
are  blessings,  too." 

O     ' 

"  I  suppose  they  are,"  replied  Mrs.  Harring- 
ton, "  though  they  don't  always  seem  so.  But 
I  came  in  to  tell  you  that  we  are'  going  to 
Mount  Nobscot  for  huckleberries  to-morrow ;  and 
if  you  and  the  children  would  like  to  go,  there  's 
room  enough  in  our  big  wagon." 

"  Thank  you  heartily,"  replied  Mrs.  May.  "  It 
will  be  a  charming  frolic  for  the  little  folks. 

~ 

But  pray  don't  tell  them  anything  about  it  to- 
night ;  if  you  do,  Robin  won't  sleep  a  wink,  or 
let  anybody  else  sleep." 

The  sun  rose  clear,  and  the  landscape,  re- 
cently washed  by  copious  showers,  looked  clean 
and  fresh.  The  children  were  in  ecstasies  at 
the  idea  of  going  to  the  hill  behind  which  they 
had  so  often  seen  the  sun  go  down.  But  so 
confused  were  their  ideas  of  space,  that,  while 
Jenny  inquired  whether  Nobscot  Avas  as  far  off  as 
Illinois,  Robin  asked,  every  five  minutes,  whether 
they  had  got  there.  When  they  were  lifted 
from  the  wagon,  thev  eagerly  ran  forward,  and 
Robin's  voice  was  soon  heard  shouting,  "  O 
Granny!  here's  lots  o'  berries!"  They  went 
to  picking  green,  red,  and  black  ones  with  all 
zeal,  while  grandmother  proceeded  to  fill  her 
basket.  When  Mrs.  Harrington  came,  she  said, 


THE  FRIENDS.  £1 

"  O,  don't  stop  to  pick  here.  We  shall  find 
them  twice  as  thick  farther  up  the  hill." 

"  I  '11  make  sure  of  these,"  replied  Mrs.  May. 
"  I  'm  of  the  old  woman's  mind,  who  said  she 
always  took  her  comfort  in  this  world  as  she 
went  along,  for  fear  it  would  n't  be  here  when 
she  came  back." 

"  You  're  a  funny  old  soul,"  rejoined  Neighbor 
Harrington.  "  How  young  you  look  to-day  !  " 

In  fact,  the  morning  air,  the  pleasant  drive, 
the  joyous  little  ones,  and  the  novelty  of  going 
from  home,  so  renovated  the  old  lady,  that  her 
spirits  rose  to  the  temperature  of  youth,  her  color 
heightened,  and  her  step  was  more  elastic  than 
usual. 

When  they  had  filled  their  baskets,  they  sat 
under  the  trees,  and  opened  the  boxes  of  lun- 
cheon. The  children  did  their  full  share  toward 
makino;  them  emptv.  When  Robin  could  eat  no 

O  1      »/ 

more,  he  followed  Joe  Harrington  into  a  neigh- 
boring field  to  examine  some  cows  that  were 
grazing.  The  women  took  out  their  knitting, 
and  little  Jenny  sat  at  their  feet,  making  hills 
of  moss,  while  she  sang  about 

A  kitty  with  soft  white  fur, 

Whose  only  talk  was  a  pleasant  purr. 

The  grandmother  hummed  the  same  tune,  but 
in  tones  too  low  to  drown  the  voice  of  her  dar- 
ling. Looking  round  on  the  broad  panorama  of 
hills,  meadows,  and  cornfields,  dotted  with  farm- 


22  THE  FRIENDS. 

houses,  her  soul  was  filled  with  the  spirit  of 
summer,  and  she  began  to  sing,  in  tones  wonder- 
fully clear  and  strong  for  her  years, 

"  Among  the  trees,  when  humming-bees 
At  buds  and  flowers  were  hanging," 

when  Robin  scrambled  up  the  hill,  calling  out, 
"  Sing  something  funny,  Granny  !  Sing  that  song 
about  me!"  He  made  a  motion  to  scatter  Jen- 
ny's mosses  with  his  foot ;  but  his  grandmother 
said,  "  If  you  want  me  to  sing  to  you,  you  must 
keep  quiet."  He  stretched  himself  full  length 
before  her,  and  throwing  his  feet  up,  gazed  in 
her  face  while  she  sang : 

C3 

"  Robin  was  a  rovin'  boy, 
Rantin'  rovin',  rantin'  rovin'; 
Robin  was  a  rovin'  boy, 
Rantin'  rovin'  Robin. 

"  He  '11  have  misfortunes  great  and  sma', 
But  ay  a  heart  aboon  them  a' ; 
He  '11  be  a  credit  till  us  a' ; 
We  '11  a'  be  proud  o'  Robin." 

"That  means  me!"  he  said,  with  an  exultant 
air  ;  and,  turning  a  somerset,  he  rolled  down  the 
hill,  from  the  bottom  of  which  they  heard  him 
whistling  the  tune. 

Altogether,  they  had  a  very  pleasant  day  among 
the  trees  and  bushes.  It  brought  back  very  viv- 
idly to  Mrs.  May's  mind  similar  ramblings  with 
Hatty  Brown  in  the  fields  of  Maine.  As  they 
walked  slowly  toward,  their  wagon,  she  was  look- 
ing dreamily  down  the  long  vista  of  her  life,  at  the 


THE  FRIENDS.  23 

entrance  of  which  she  seemed  to  see  a  vision  of  her 
handsome  friend  Hatty  pelting  her  with  flowers 
in  girlish  glee.  The  children  ran  on,  while  older 
members  of  the  party  lingered  to  arrange  the  bas- 
kets. Presently  Jenny  came  running  back,  and 
said,  "  Granny,  there  's  a  carriage  down  there  ; 
and  a  lady  asked  me  my  name,  and  said  I  was  a 
pretty  little  girl." 

"  Pretty  is  that  pretty  does"  replied  the  grand- 
mother. "  That  means  it  is  pretty  to  be  good." 
Then,  turning  to  Mrs.  Harrington,  she  asked. 
"  Whose  carriage  is  that  ?  " 

She  answered,  "  It  passed  us  last  Sunday,  when 
we  were  going  to  meeting,  and  husband  said  it 
belonged  to  Mr.  Jones,  that  New  York  gentleman 
who  bought  the  Simmes  estate,  you  know.  I  guess 
that  old  lady  is  Mrs.  Gray,  his  wife's  mother." 

"  Mrs.  who  ?  "  exclaimed  her  companion,  in  a 
very  excited  tone. 

"  They  say  her  name  is  Gray,"  replied  Mrs. 
Harrington  ;  "  but  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? 
You  're  all  of  a  tremble." 

Without  answering,  Mrs.  May  hurried  forward 
with  a  degree  of  agility  that  surprised  them  all. 
She  paused  in  front  of  an  old  lady  very  hand- 
somely dressed  in  silver-gray  silk.  She  looked  at 
the  thin,  sharp  features,  the  dull  black  eyes,  and 
the  wrinkled  forehead.  It  was  so  unlike  the 
charming  vision  she  had  seen  throwing  flowers 
in  the  far-off  vista  of  memorv  !  She  asked  herself, 


24  THE  FRIENDS. 

"  Can  it  be  she  ?  "  Then,  with  a  suppressed,  half- 
embarrassed  eagerness,  she  asked,  "  Are  you  the 
Mrs.  Gray  who  used  to  be  Hatty  Brown  ?  " 

"  That  was  formerly  my  name,"  replied  the 
lady,  with  dignified  politeness. 

She  threw  her  arms   round   her  neck,  nothing 

*  O 

doubting,  and  exclaimed  :  "  O  Hatty  !  dear  Hatty  ! 
How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  !  I  've  been  thinking 
of  you  a  deal  to-day." 

The  old  lady  received  the  embrace  passively, 
and,  readjusting  her  tumbled  cape,  replied,  "  I 
think  I  've  seen  your  face  somewhere,  ma'am,  but 
I  don't  remember  where." 

"  What !  don't  you  know  me  ?  Your  old  friend, 
Jenny  White,  who  married  Frank  May  ?  " 

"  O  yes,  I  remember.  But  you  've  changed  a 
good  deal  since  I  used  to  know  you.  Has  your 
health  been  good  since  I  saw  you,  Mrs.  May  ?  " 

This  response  chilled  her  friend's  heart  like  an 
east  wind  upon  spring  flowers.  In  a  confused  way, 
she  stammered  out,  "  I  've  been  very  well,  thank 
you  ;  and  I  hope  you  have  enjoyed  the  same  bless- 
ing. But  I  must  go  and  see  to  the  children  now. 
I  thought  to  be  sure  you  'd  know  me.  Good  by." 

"  Good  by,  ma'am,"  responded  the  old  lady  in 
gray. 

The  carriage  was  gone  when  Mrs.  Harrington 
and  her  party  entered  the  big  wagon  to  return 
home.  Mrs.  May,  having  made  a  brief  explana- 
tion of  her  proceedings,  became  unusually  silent. 


THE  FRIENDS.  25 

It  was  a  lovely  afternoon,  but  she  did  not  comment 
on  the  beauty  of  the  landscape,  as  she  had  done 
in  the  morning.  She  was  kind  and  pleasant,  but 
her  gayety  had  vanished.  The  thought  revolved 
through  her  mind  :  "  Could  it  be  my  shabby  gown  ? 
Hatty  always  thought  a  deal  of  dress."  But  the 
suspicion  seemed  to  her  mean,  and  she  strove  to 
drive  it  away. 

"  Meeting  that  old  acquaintance  seems  to  make 
you  down-hearted,"  remarked  Mrs.  Harrington  ; 
"  and  that 's  something  new  for  you." 

"  I  ivas  disappointed  that  she  did  n't  know  me," 
replied  Mrs.  May ;  "  but  when  I  reflect,  it  seems 
very  natural.  I  doubt  whether  I  should  have 
known  her,  if  you  had  n't  tokl  me  her  name. 
I  'm  glad  it  did  n't  happen  in  the  morning  ;  for 
it  might  have  clouded  my  day  a  little.  I  've 
had  a  beautiful  time." 

"  Whatever  comes,  you  are  always  thankful  it 
was  n't  something  worse,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Harring- 
ton. "  Little  Jenny  is  going  to  be  just  like  you. 
She  '11  never  be  pining  after  other  people's  pies 
and  cakes.  Whatever  she  has,  she  '11  call  it  '  Lasses 
top  on  bread !  What  can  be  gooder  ?'  Won't  you, 
Sissy?" 

"  Bless  the  dear  little  soul !  she  's  fast  asleep  !  " 
said  her  grandmother.  She  placed  the  pretty  little 
head  in  her  lap,  and  tenderly  stroked  back  the 
silky  curls.  The  slight  cloud  soon  floated  away 
from  her  serene  soul,  and  she  began  to  sing, 
2 


26  THE  FRIENDS. 

"  Away  with  melancholy,"  and  "  Life  let  us  cher- 
ish." As  the  wagon  rolled  toward  home,  people 
who  happened  to  be  at  their  doors  or  windows 
said :  "  That  is  old  Mrs.  Frank  May.  What  a 
clear,  sweet  voice  she  has  for  a  woman  of  her 
years  !  " 

Mrs.  May  looked  in  her  glass  that  night  longer 
than  she  had  done  for  years.  "  I  am  changed," 
said  she  to  herself.  "  No  wonder  Hatty  did  n't 
know  me !  "  She  took  from  the  till  of  her  trunk 
a  locket  containing  a  braid  of  glossy  black  hair. 
She  gazed  at  it  awhile,  and  then  took  off  her  spec- 
tacles, to  wipe  from  them  the  moisture  of  her 
tears.  "  And  this  is  my  first  meeting  with  Hatty 
since  we  exchanged  lockets  !  "  murmured  she. 
"  If  we  had  foreseen  it  then,  could  we  have  be- 
lieved it  ?  " 

The  question  whether  or  not  it  was  a  duty  to 
call  on  Mrs.  Gray  disturbed  her  mind  considera- 
bly. Mrs.  Harrington  settled  it  for  her  off-hand. 
"  She  did  not  ask  you  to  come,"  said  she  ;  "  and 
if  she  's  a  mind  to  set  herself  up,  let  her  take  the 
comfort  of  it.  Folks  say  she  's  a  dreadful  stiff, 
prim  old  body ;  rigid  Orthodox  ;  sure  that  every- 
body who  don't  think  just  as  she  does  will  go  to 
the  bad  place." 

These  words  were  not  uttered  with  evil  inten- 
tion, but  their  effect  was  to  increase  the  sense  of 
separation.  On  the  other  hand,  influences  were 
not  wanting  to  prejudice  Mrs.  Gray  against  her 


THE  FRIENDS.  27 

former  friend,  whose  sudden  appearance  and  en- 
thusiastic proceedings  had  disconcerted  her  precise 
habits.  When  the  Sewing-Society  met  at  her  son- 
in-law's  house,  she  happened  to  be  seated  next  to 
an  austere  woman,  of  whom  she  inquired,  "  What 
sort  of  person  is  Mrs.  Frank  May  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  her,"  was  the  reply.  "  She 
goes  to  the  Unitarian  meeting,  and  I  have  no 
acquaintance  with  people  of  that  society.  I  should 
judge  she  was  rather  light-minded.  When  I  've 
passed  by  her  house,  I  've  often  heard  her  singing 
songs ;  and  I  should  think  psalms  and  hymns 
would  be  more  suitable  to  her  time  of  life.  I 
rode  by  there  once  on  Sunday,  when  I  was  com- 
ing home  from  a  funeral,  and  she  was  singing 
something  that  sounded  too  lively  for  a  psalm- 
tune.  Miss  Crosby  told  me  she  heard  her  say 
that  heathens  were  just  as  likely  to  be  saved  as 
Christians." 

"  O,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,"  replied  Mrs. 
Gray.  "  She  and  I  were  brought  up  under  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Peat's  preaching,  and  he  was  sound 
Orthodox." 

"  I  did  n't  know  she  wras  an  acquaintance  of 
yours,"  rejoined  the  austere  lady,  "  or  I  would  n't 
have  called  her  light-minded.  I  never  heard  any- 
thing against  her,  only  what  she  said  about  the 
heathen." 

Mrs.  May,  having  revolved  the  subject  in  her 
straightforward  mind,  came  to  the  conclusion  that 


28  THE  FRIENDS. 

Neighbor  Harrington's  advice  was  not  in  con- 
formity with  the  spirit  of  kindness.  "  Since  Mrs. 
Gray  is  a  stranger  in  town,  it  is  my  place  to  call 
first,"  said  she.  "  I  will  perform  my  duty,  and 
then  she  can  do  as  she  pleases  about  returning  the 
visit."  So  she  arrayed  herself  in  the  best  she 
had,  placed  the  children  in  the  care  of  Mrs.  Har- 
rington, and  went  forth  on  her  mission  of  polite- 
ness. The  large  mirror,  the  chairs  covered  with 
green  damask,  and  the  paper  touched  here  and 
there  with  gold,  that  shimmered  in  the  rays  of  the 
setting  sun,  formed  a  striking  contrast  to  her  own 
humble  home.  Perhaps  this  unaccustomed  feeling 
imparted  a  degree  of  constraint  to  her  manner 
when  her  old  friend  entered  the  room,  in  ample 
folds  of  shining  gray  silk,  and  a  rich  lace  cap  with 
pearl-colored  ribbons.  Mrs.  Gray  remarked  to 
her  that  she  bore  her  age  remarkably  well ;  to 
which  Mrs.  May  replied  that  folks  told  her  so,  and 
she  supposed  it  was  because  she  generally  had 
pretty  good  health.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  to 
return  the  compliment,  for  it  would  not  have  been 
true.  Jenny  was  now  better-looking  than  Hatty. 
Much  of  this  difference  miojit  be  attributed  to  her 

~ 

more  perfect  health,  but  still  more  it  was  owing 
to  the  fact  that,  all  their  lives  long,  one  had  lived 
to  be  ministered  unto,  and  the  other  to  minister. 
The  interview  was  necessarily  a  formal  one. 
Mrs.  Gray  inquired  about  old  acquaintances  in 
Maine,  but  her  visitor  had  been  so  long  absent 


THE  FRIENDS.  29 

from  that  part  of  the  country  that  she  had  little 
or  nothing  to  tell,  and  all  she  had  struggled 
through  meanwhile  would  have  been  difficult  for 
the  New  York  lady  to  realize.  The  remark  about 
her  light-mindedness  was  constantly  present  in 
Mrs.  Gray's  mind,  and  at  parting  she  thus  ex- 
pressed the  anxiety  it  occasioned :  "  You  say  you 
have  a  great  deal  to  do,  Mrs.  May,  and  indeed 
you  must  have,  with  all  the  care  of  those  little 
children  ;  but  I  hope  you  find  time  to  think  about 
the  salvation  of  your  soul." 

Her  visitor  replied,  with  characteristic  simpli- 
city :  "  I  don't  know  whether  I  do,  in  the  sense  I 
suppose  you  mean.  I  have  thought  a  great  deal 
about  what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong,  and  I  have 
prayed  for  light  to  see  what  was  my  duty,  and  for 
strength  to  perform  it.  But  the  fact  is,  I  have 
had  so  much  to  do  for  others,  that  I  have  n't  had 
much -time  to  think  about  myself,  in  any  way." 
Then,  with  some  passing  remark  about  the  vines 
at  the  door,  the  old  ladies  bade  each  other  good- 
by. 

When  Mrs.  Harrington  was  informed  of  the 
conversation,  she  said,  in  her  blunt  way :  "  It  was 
a  great  piece  of  impertinence  in  her.  She  'd  bet- 
ter take  care  of  her  own  soul  than  trouble  herself 
about  yours." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  replied  Mrs.  May.  "  I  be- 
lieve she  meant  it  kindly.  She  don't  seem  to  me 
to  be  stern  or  proud.  But  we  've  been  doing  and 


80  THE  FRIENDS. 

thinking  such  very  different  things,  for  a  great 
many  years,  that  she  don't  know  what  to  say  to 
me,  and  I  am  just  as  much  puzzled  how  to  get  at 
her.  I  reckon  all  these  things  will  come  right  in 
another  world." 

During  the  summer  she  often  saw  Mr.  Jones's 
carriage  pass  her  house,  and  many  a  time,  when 
the  weather  was  fine,  she  placed  fresh  flowers 
on  the  mantel-piece,  in  a  pretty  vase  which  Hatty 
had  given  her  for  a  bridal  present,  thinking  to 
herself  that  Mrs.  Gray  would  be  likely  to  ride 
out,  and  might  give  her  a  call.  When  autumn 
came,  she  filled  the  vase  with  grasses  and  bright 
berries,  which  she  gathered  in  her  ramblings  with 
the  children.  Once,  the  carriage  passed  her  as 
she  was  walking  home,  with  a  little  one  in  either 
hand,  and  Mrs.  Gray  looked  out  and  bowed.  At 
last  a  man  came  with  a  barrel  of  apples  and  a 
message.  The  purport  of  it  was,  that  she  had 
gone  with  her  daughter's  family  to  New  York  for 
the  winter ;  that  she  intended  to  have  called  on 
Mrs.  May,  but  had  been  poorly  and  made  no 
visits. 

Winter  passed  rapidly.  The  children  attended 
school  constantly  ;  it  was  grandmother's  business 
to  help  them  about  their  lessons,  to  knit  them 
warm  socks  and  mittens,  to  mend  their  clothes, 
and  fill  their  little  dinner-kettle  with  provisions. 
The  minister,  the  deacon,  and  the  neighbors  in 
general  felt  interested  to  help  the  worthy  woman 


THE  FRIENDS.  31 

along  in  the  task  she  had  undertaken.  Many 
times  a  week  she  repeated,  "  How  my  path  is 
strewn  with  blessings  !  " 

With  the  lilacs  the  New  York  family  came 
back  to  their  summer  residence.  The  tidings 
soon  spread  abroad  that  Mrs.  Gray  was  failing 
fast,  and  was  seldom  strong  enough  to  ride  out. 
Mrs.  May  recalled  to  mind  certain  goodies,  of 
which  Hatty  used  to  be  particularly  fond  in  their 
old  girlish  times.  The  next  day  she  started  from 
home  with  a  basket  nicely  covered  with  a  white 
damask  napkin,  on  the  top  of  which  lay  a  large- 
bunch  of  Lilies  of  the  Valley,  imbedded  in  one  of 
their  broad  green  leaves.  She  found  Mrs.  Gray 
bolstered  up  in  her  easy-chair,  looking  quite  thin 
and  pale.  "  I  know  you  have  everything  you 
want,  and  better  than  I  can  bring,"  said  she ; 
"  but  I  remembered  you  used  to  like  these  goodies 
when  we  were  girls,  and  I  wanted  to  bring  you 
something,  so  I  brought  these."  She  laid  the 
flowers  in  the  thin  hand,  and  uncovered  her 
basket. 

The  invalid  looked  up  in  her  face  with  a  smile, 
and  said,  "  Thank  you,  Jenny ;  this  is  very  kind 
of  you." 

"  God  bless  you  for  calling  me  Jenny !  "  ex- 
claimed her  warm-hearted  old  friend,  with  a  gush 
of  tears.  "  There  is  nobody  left  to  call  me  Jenny 
now.  The  children  call  me  Granny,  and  the 
neighbors  call  me  old  Mrs.  Frank  May.  O,  it 
sounds  like  old  times,  Hatty." 


32  THE  FRIENDS. 

The  ice  gave  way  under  the  touch  of  that  one 
sunbeam.  Mrs.  Gray  and  Mrs.  May  vanished  from 
their  conversation,  and  only  Hatty  and  Jenny  re- 
mained. For  several  months  they  met  every  day, 
and  warmed  their  old  hearts  with  youthful  mem- 
ories. Once  only,  a  little  of  the  former  restraint 
returned  for  a  few  minutes.  Mrs.  Gray  betrayed 
what  was  in  her  mind,  by  saying  :  "  I  suppose, 
Jenny,  you  know  I  have  n't  any  property.  My 
husband  failed  before  he  died,  and  I  am  dependent 
on  my  daughter." 

"  I  never  inquired  about  your  property,  and  I 
don't  care  anything  about  it,"  replied  Mrs.  May, 
rather  bruskly,  and  with  a  slight  flush  on  her 
cheeks  ;  but,  immediately  subsiding  into  a  gentler 
tone,  she  added,  "  I  'm  very  glad,  Hatty,  that  you 
have  a  daughter  who  is  able  to  make  you  so  com- 
fortable." 

Thenceforth  the  invalid  accepted  her  disinter- 
ested services  without  question  or  doubt.  True 
to  her  old  habits  of  being  ministered  unto,  she 
made  large  demands  on  her  friend's  time  and 
strength,  apparently  unconscious  how  much  incon- 
venience it  must  occasion  to  an  old  person  charged 
with  the  whole  care  of  two  orphan  children.  Mrs. 
May  carefully  concealed  any  impediments  in  the 
way,  and,  by  help  of  Mrs.  Harrington,  was  always 
ready  to  attend  upon  her  old  friend.  She  was 
often  called  upon  to  sing  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  "  ;  and 
sometimes,  when  the  invalid  felt  stronger  than 


THE  FRIENDS:  33 

common,  she  would  join  in  with  her  feeble,  cracked 
voice.  Jenny  sat  looking  at  Hatty's  withered 
face,  and  dim  black  eyes,  and  she  often  felt  a 
choking  in  her  throat,  while  they  sang  together : 

"  We  twa  hae  ran  about  the  braes, 
And  pu'd  the  gowans  fine." 

More  frequently  they  sang  the  psalm-tunes  they 
used  to  sing  when  both  sat  in  the  singing-seats 
with  Frank  May  and  Harry  Blake.  They  seldom 
parted  without  Jenny's  reading  a  chapter  of  the 
New  Testament  in  a  soft,  serious  tone.  One  day 
Mrs.  Gray  said  :  "  I  have  a  confession  to  make, 
Jenny.  I  was  a  little  prejudiced  against  you,  and 
thought  I  should  n't  care  to  renew  our  acquaint- 
ance. Somebody  told  me  you  was  light-minded, 
and  that  you  told  Miss  Crosby  the  heathen  were 
just  as  likely  to  be  saved  as  Christians.  But  you 
seem  to  put  your  trust  in  God,  Jenny ;  and  it  is 
a  great  comfort  to  me  to  hear  you  read  and  sing." 

"  I  have  a  confession  to  make,  too,"  replied  Mrs. 
May.  "  They  told  me  you  was  a  very  stern  and 
bigoted  Orthodox  ;  and  you  know,  when  we  were 
girls,  Hatty,  I  never  took  much  to  folks  that  were 
too  strict  to  brew  a  Saturday,  for  fear  the  beer 
would  work  a  Sunday." 

'•  Ah,  we  were  giddy  young  things  in  those 
days,"  replied  her  friend,  with  much  solemnity  in 
her  manner. 

"  Well,  Hatty  dear,  I  'm  a  sort  of  an  old  girl 
now,"  replied  Mrs.  May.  "I  am  disposed  to 

2*  C 


34  THE  FRIENDS. 

be  merciful  toward  the  short-comings  of  my  fel- 
low-creatures, and  I  cannot  believe  our  Heavenly 
Father  will  be  less  so.  I  remember  Miss  Cros- 
by talked  to  me  about  the  heathen  one  day,  and 
I  thought  she  talked  hard.  I  don't  recollect 
what  I  said  to  her  ;  but  after  I  arrived  at  years 
of  reflection  I  came  to  some  conclusions  differ- 
ent from  the  views  we  were  brought  up  in. 
You  know  my  dear  Frank  was  an  invalid  many 
years.  He  was  always  in  the  house,  and  we 
read  to  each  other,  and  talked  over  what  we 
read.  In  that  way,  I  got  the  best  part  of  the 
education  I  have  after  I  was  married.  Amono- 

o 

other  things  he  read  to  me  some  translations  from 
what  the  Hindoos  believe  in  as  their  Bible;  and 
some  of  the  writings  of  Rammolmn  Roy ;  and 
we  both  came  to  the  conclusion  that  some  who 
were  called  heathens  might  be  nearer  to  God 
than  many  professing  Christians.  You  know, 
Hatty,  that  Jesus  walked  and  talked  with  his 
disciples,  and  their  hearts  were  stirred,  but  they 
did  n't  know  him.  Now  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
spirit  of  Jesus  may  walk  and  talk  with  good 
pious  Hindoos  and  Mahometans,  and  may  stir 
their  hearts,  though  they  don't  know  him." 

O  »/ 

"  You  may  be  right,"  rejoined  the  invalid. 
"  God's  ways  are  above  our  ways.  It  's  a  pity 
friends  should  be  set  against  one  another  on  ac- 
count of  what  they  believe,  or  don't  believe. 
Pray  for  me,  Jenny,  and  I  will  pray  for  you.'''' 


THE   FRIENDS.  35 

It  was  the  latter  part  of  October,  when  Mrs. 
May  carried  a  garland  of  bright  autumn  leaves 
to  pin  up  opposite  her  friend's  bed.  "  It  is  beau- 
tiful," said  the  invalid  ;  "  but  the  colors  are  not 
so  brilliant  as  those  you  and  I  used  to  gather  in 
Maine.  O,  how  the  woods  glowed  there,  at. 
this  season  !  I  wish  I  could  see  them  again." 

Mrs.  May  smiled,  and  answered,  "  Perhaps 
you  will,  dear." 

Her  friend  looked  in  her  face,  with  an  earnest, 
questioning  glance ;  but  she  only  said,  "  Sing  our 
old  favorite  tune  of  St.  Martin's,  Jenny."  She 
seated  herself  by  the  bedside  and  sang : 

"  The  Lord  my  shepherd  is, 

I  shall  be  well  supplied; 
Since  he  is  mine,  and  I  am  his, 
What  can  I  want  beside?  " 

Perceiving  that  the  invalid  grew  drowsy,  she  con- 
tinued to  hum  in  a  low,  lulling  tone.  When  she 
was  fast  asleep,  she  rose  up,  and,  after  gazing 
tenderly  upon  her,  crept  softly  out  of  the  room. 
She  never  looked  in  those  old  dim  eves  again. 
The  next  morning  they  told  her  the  spirit  had 
departed  from  its  frail  tenement. 

Some  clothing  and  a  few  keepsakes  were  trans- 
mitted to  Mrs.  May  soon  after,  in  compliance 
with  the  expressed  wish  of  her  departed  friend. 
Among  them  was  the  locket  containing  a  braid 
of  her  own  youthful  hair.  It  was  the  very  color 
of  little  Jenny's,  only  the  glossy  brown  was  a 


36  THE  FRIENDS. 

shade  darker.  She  placed  the  two  lockets  side 
by  side,  and  wiped  the  moisture  from  her  spec- 
tacles as  she  gazed  upon  them.  Then  she  wrapped 
them  together,  and  wrote  on  them,  with  a  trem- 
bling hand,  "  The  hair  of  Grandmother  and  her 
old  friend  Hatty ;  for  my  darling  little  Jenny." 

When  Neighbor  Harrington  came  in  to  ex- 
amine the  articles  that  had  been  sent,  the  old 
lady  said  to  her :  "  There  is  nobody  left  now  to 
call  me  Jenny.  But  here  is  my  precious  little 
Jenny.  She  '11  never  forsake  her  old  granny ; 
will  she,  darling  ? "  The  child  snuggled  fondly 
to  her  side,  and  stood  on  tiptoe  to  kiss  the  wrin- 
kled face,  which  was  to  her  the  dearest  face  in 
the  whole  world. 

She  never  did  desert  her  good  old  friend.  She 
declined  marrying  during  Mrs.  May's  lifetime,  and 
waited  upon  her  tenderly  to  the  last.  Robin, 
who  proved  a  bright  scholar,  went  to  the  West 
to  teach  school,  with  the  view  of  earning  money 
to  buy  a  farm,  where  grandmother  should  be 
the  queen.  He  wrote  her  many  loving  letters, 
and  sent  portions  of  his  earnings  to  her  and 
Sissy  ;  but  she  departed  this  life  before  his  earthly 
paradise  was  made  ready  for  her.  The  last  tune 
she  sang  was  St.  Martin's ;  and  the  last  words 
she  spoke  were :  "  How  many  blessings  I  have 
received !  Thank  the  Lord  for  all  his  mercies  !  " 


THE    GOOD    OLD    GRANDMOTHER, 

WHO    DIED    AGED    EIGHTY. 

O  SOFTLY  wave  the  silver  hair 
From  off  that  aged  brow  ! 
That  crown  of  glory,  worn  so  long, 
A  fitting  crown  is  now. 

Fold  reverently  the  weary  hands, 

That  toiled  so  long  and  well ; 
And,  while  your  tears  of  sorrow  fall, 

Let  sweet  thanksgivings  swell. 

That  life-work,  stretching  o'er  long  years, 

A  varied  web  has  been ; 
With  silver  strands  by  sorrow  wrought, 

And  sunny  gleams  between. 

These  silver  hairs  stole  softly  on, 

Like  flakes  of  falling  snow, 
That  wrap  the  green  earth  lovingly, 

When  autumn  breezes  blow. 

Each  silver  hair,  each  wrinkle  there, 
Records  some  good  deed  done  ; 


38        THE   GOOD   OLD   GRANDMOTHER. 

Some  flower  she  cast  along  the  way, 
Some  spark  from  love's  bright  sun. 

How  bright  she  always  made  her  home  ! 

It  seemed  as  if  the  floor 
Was  always  flecked  with  spots  of  sun, 

And  barred  with  brightness  o'er. 

The  very  falling  of  her  step 

Made  music  as  she  went ; 
A  loving  song  was  on  her  lip, 

The  song  of  full  content. 

.    And  now,  in  later  years,  her  word 

Has  been  a  blessed  thing 
In  many  a  home,  where  glad  she  saw 
Her  children's  children  spring. 

Her  widowed  life  has  happy  been, 
With  brightness  born  of  heaven  ; 

So  pearl  and  gold  in  drapery  fold 
The  sunset  couch  at  even. 

0  gently  fold  the  weary  hands 
That  toiled  so  long  and  well ; 

The  spirit  rose  to  angel  bands, 
When  off  earth's  mantle  fell. 

She  's  safe  within  her  Father's  house, 

Where  many  mansions  be  ; 
0  pray  that  thus  such  rest  may  come, 

Dear  heart,  to  thee  and  me  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE   CONSOLATIONS   OF   AGE. 

TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    ZSCHOKKfi'S 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

f'f  RO~hl  all  I  have  narrated  concerning 
my  good  and  evil  days,  some  may  infer 
that  I  have  been  on  the  whole  a  favor- 
ite of  fortune;  that  I  may  very  well 
be  philosophic,  and  maintain  a  rosy  good-humor, 
since,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  self-torments  of 
the  fancy,  I  have  seldom  or  never  experienced 
a  misfortune.  But  indeed  I  have  met  with  what 
men  usually  style  great  misfortunes,  or  evils,  though 
I  never  so  named  them.  Like  every  mortal,  I 
have  had  my  share  of  what  is  called  human  misery. 
The  weight  of  a  sudden  load  has  sometimes,  for  a 
moment,  staggered  me  and  pressed  me  down,  as 
is  the  case  with  others.  But,  with  renewed  buoy- 
ancy of  spirit,  I  have  soon  risen  again,  and  borne 
the  burden  allotted  to  me,  without  discontent. 
Nay,  more  than  this,  though  some  may  shake 
their  heads  incredulously,  it  is  a  fact  that  worldly 
suffering  has  often  not  been  disagreeable  to  me. 


40  THE   CONSOLATIONS   OF  AGE. 

It  has  weaned  me  from  placing  my  trust  in  tran- 
sitory things.  It  lias  shown  me  the  degree  of 
strength  and  self-reliance  I  could  retain,  even  at 
that  period  of  life  when  the  passions  reign.  I  am 
fully  convinced  that  there  is  no  evil  in  the  world 
but  sin.  Nothing  but  consciousness  of  guilt  spins  a 
dark  thread,  which  reaches  through  the  web  of  all 
our  days,  even  unto  the  grave.  God  is  not  the 
author  of  calamity,  but  only  man,  by  his  weakness, 
his  over-estimate  of  pompous  vanities,  and  the 
selfish  nurture  of  his  appetites.  He  weeps  like  a 
child  because  he  cannot  have  his  own  way,  and 
even  at  seventy  years  of  age  is  not  yet  a  man. 
He  bewails  himself,  because  God  does  not  mind 
him.  Yet  every  outward  misfortune  is  in  truth 
as  worthy  a  gift  of  God  as  outward  success. 

In  common  with  others,  I  have  met  with  ingrat- 
itude from  many  ;  but  it  did  not  disquiet  me  ; 
because  what  I  had  done  for  them  was  not  done 
for  thanks.  Friends  have  deceived  me,  but  it  did 
not  make  me  angry  with  them  ;  for  I  saw  that  I 
had  only  deceived  myself  with  regard  to  them. 
I  have  endured  misapprehension  and  persecution 
with  composure,  being  aware  of  the  unavoidable 
diversity  of  opinions,  and  of  the  passions  thereby 
excited.  I  have  borne  the  crosses  of  povertv  with- 
out a  murmur  ;  for  experience  had  taught  me  that 
outward  poverty  often  brings  inward  wealth.  I 
have  lost  a  moderate  property,  which  I  had  ac- 
quired by  toil,  but  such  losses  did  not  imbitter  me 


THE    CONSOLATIONS   OF  AGE.  41 

for  a  single  day  ;  they  only  taught  me  to  work 
and  spare.  I  have  been  the  happy  father  of  happy 
children.  Twelve  sons  and  one  daughter  I  have 
counted ;  and  I  have  had  to  sit,  with  a  bleeding 
heart,  at  the  death-bed  of  four  of  those  sons.  As 
they  drew  their  last  breath,  I  felt  that  divine 
sorrow  which  transforms  the  inner  man.  My 
spirit  rested  on  the  Father  of  the  universe,  and 
it  was  well  with  me.  My  dead  ones  were  not 
parted  from  me.  Those  who  remained  behind 
drew  the  more  closely  to  one  another,  while  eager- 
ly looking  toward  those  who  had  gone  before 
them  to  other  mansions  of'  the  Great  Father.  It 
was  our  custom  to  think  of  the  deceased  as  still 
living  in  the  midst  of  us.  We  were  wont  to  talk 
about  their  little  adventures,  their  amusing  sallies, 
and  the  noble  traits  of  their  characters.  Every- 
thing noteworthy  concerning  them,  as  well  as 
what  related  to  the  living  members  of  the  family, 
was  recorded  by  the  children  in  a  chronicle  they 
kept  in  the  form  of  a  newspaper,  and  was  thus 
preserved  from  oblivion.  Death  is  something  fes- 
tal, great,  like  all  the  manifestations  of  God  here 
below.  The  death  of  my  children  hallowed  me  ; 
it  lifted  me  more  and  more  out  of  the  shows  of 
earth,  into  the  divine.  It  purified  my  thoughts 
and  feelings.  I  wept,  as  a  child  of  the  dust  must 
do ;  but  in  spirit  I  was  calm  and  cheerful,  because 
I  knew  to  whom  I  and  mine  belonged. 

At    the  beginning    of  old  age,  I   could  indeed 


42  THE   CONSOLATIONS   OF  AGE. 

call  myself  a  happy  man.  On  my  seventieth 
birthday,  I  felt  as  if  I  were  standing  on  a  moun- 
tain height,  at  whose  foot  the  ocean  of  eternity 
was  audibly  rushing  ;  while  behind  me,  life,  with 
its  deserts  and  flower-gardens,  its  sunny  days  and 
its  stormy  days,  spread  out  green,  wild,  and  beau- 
tiful. Formerly,  when  I  read  or  heard  of  the 
joylessness  of  age,  I  was  filled  with  sadness  ;  but 
I  now  wondered  that  it  presented  so  much  that 
was  agreeable.  The  more  the  world  diminished 
and  grew  dark,  the  less  I  felt  the  loss  of  it ;  for 
the  dawn  of  the  next  world  grew  ever  clearer 
and  clearer. 

Thus  rejoicing  in  God,  and  with  him,  I  ad- 
vance into  the  winter  of  life,  beyond  which  no 
spring  awaits  me  on  this  planet.  The  twilight 
of  my  existence  on  earth  is  shining  round  me ; 
but  the  world  floats  therein  in  a  rosy  light,  more 
beautiful  than  the  dawn  of  life.  Others  may 
look  back  with  homesickness  to  the  lost  paradise 
of  childhood.  That  paradise  was  never  mine. 
I  wandered  about,  an  orphan,  unloved,  and  for- 
saken of  all  but  God.  I  thank  him  for  this 
allotment ;  for  it  taught  me  to  build  my  paradise 
within.  The  solemn  evening  is  at  hand,  and  it 
is  welcome.  I  repent  not  that  I  have  lived. 
Others,  in  their  autumn,  can  survey  and  count 
up  their  collected  harvests.  This  I  cannot.  I 
have  scattered  seed,  but  whither  the  wind  has 
carried  it  I  know  not.  The  good-will  alone  was 


THE   CONSOLATIONS  OF  AGE.  43 

mine.     God's  hand  decided    concerning  the  suc- 
cess of  my  labor.     Many   an  unproductive  seed 
I    have   sown ;  but   I    do   not,   on    that  account, 
complain   either  of  myself  or  of  Heaven.     For- 
tune has  lavished  on  me  no  golden  treasures  ;  but 
contented  with  what  my  industry  has  acquired, 
and  my  economy  has  preserved,  I  enjoy  that 
noble    independence    at    which    I    have 
always  aimed  ;  and  out  of  the  little 
I    possess  I  have   been   some- 
times able  to  afford  assist- 
ance to  others  who 
were   less   for- 
tunate. 


AN  healthy  old  fellow,  that  is  not  a  fool,  is  the 
happiest  creature  living.  It  is  at  that  time  of  life 
only  men  enjoy  their  faculties  with  pleasure  and 
satisfaction.  It  is  then  we  have  nothing  to  manage, 
as  the  phrase  is  ;  we  speak  the  downright  truth  ; 
and  whether  the  rest  of  the  world  will  give  us  the 
privilege,  or  not,  we  have  so  little  to  ask  of  them, 
that  we  can  take  it.  —  STEELE. 


THE    OLD    MAN    DREAMS 


BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

OFOR  one  hour  of  youthful  joy  ! 
Give  back  my  twentieth  spring ! 
I  'd   rather  laugh  a  bright-haired  boy, 
Than  reign  a  gray-beard  king  ! 

Off  with  the  wrinkled  spoils  of  age  ! 

Away  with  learning's  crown  ! 
Tear  out  life's  wisdom-written  page, 

And  dash  its  trophies  down ! 

One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 
From  boyhood's  fount  of  fame ! 

Give  me  one  giddy,  reeling  dream 
Of  life  all  love  and  flame  ! 

My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer, 

And,  calmly  smiling,  said, 
"  If  I  but  touch  thy  silvered  hair, 

Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

"  But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track 
To  bid  thee  fondly  stay, 


THE   OLD  MAN  DREAMS.  45 

While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 
To  find  the  wished-for  day  ?  " 

Ah,  truest  soul  of  womankind  ! 

Without  thee,  what  were  life  ? 
One  bliss  I  cannot  leave  behind  : 

I  '11  take  —  my  —  precious  —  wife  ! 

The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen 

And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 
"  The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  husband  too !  " 

"  And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid, 

Before  the  change  appears  ? 
Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 

With  those  dissolving  years  !  " 

Why,  yes  ;  for  memory  would  recall 

My  fond  paternal  joys  ; 
I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all  : 

I  '11  take  —  my  —  girl  —  and  —  boys  ! 

The  smiling  angel  dropped  his  pen,  — 

''  Why,  this  will  never  do  ; 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  father  too  ! " 

And  so  I  laughed,  —  my  laughter  woke 

The  household  with  its  noise,  — 
And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning  broke, 

To  please  the  gray-haired  boys. 


A    RUSSIAN    LADY 


OF   THE   OLD   SCHOOL.* 


^jf  IVE  me  your  hand,  dear  reader,  and 
accompany  me  on  a  visit  to  one  of  my 
neighbors.  The  day  is  fine,  the  blue 
sky  of  the  month  of  May  is  a  beauti- 
ful object ;  the  smooth  young  leaves  of  the  white 
hazel-trees  are  as  brilliant  as  if  they  had  been 
newly  washed.  The  large,  smooth  fields  are  cov- 
ered with  that  fine  young  grass  which  the  sheep 
love  so  much  to  crop  ;  on  the  right  and  left,  on 
the  long  slopes  of  the  hills,  the  rye-grass  is  wav- 
ing, and  over  its  smooth  swell  glide  the  shadows 
of  the  little  flying  clouds.  In  the  distance,  the 
woods  are  resplendent  with  the  brilliant  light ;  the 
ponds  glitter,  and  the  villages  are  bathed  in  yellow 
rays.  Innumerable  larks  fly  about,  singing  and 
beating  their  wings  in  unison  ;  making  their  ap- 
pearance first  in  one  spot,  then  in  another,  they 
rise  lightly  from  the  fields,  and  again  are  as  quick- 

*  IYom  Life  in  the  Interior  of  Russia. 


A   RUSSIAN  LADY.  47 

ly  lost  in  them.  The  rooks  station  themselves  on 
the  highway,  looking  up  fixedly  at  the  sun ;  they 
move  aside  to  let  you  pass,  or  foolishly  fly  forward 
ten  paces  on  the  edge  of  the  road.  On  the  slopes 
beyond  a  ravine  a  laborer  is  at  his  plough,  and  a 
piebald  foal,  with  its  miserable  little  tail,  dishev- 
elled mane,  and  long,  frail  legs,  runs  after  its 
mother,  and  we  may  just  hear  its  plaintive  neigh. 
We  enter  a  birch  wood,  and  a  fresh  and  strong 
odor  fills  the  air ;  we  reach  the  gate  of  an  enclo- 
sure ;  the  coachman  descends,  and,  while  the 
horses  snort,  and  the  right  wheeler  plays  with 
his  tail,  and  rubs  his  jaw  against  the  pole,  he 
opens  the  creaking  gate,  and,  reseating  himself, 
we  roll  on. 

A  village  now  presents  itself,  and,  after  passing 
five  or  six  farm-yards,  we  turn  to  the  right,  and 
descending  rapidly,  are  soon  driving  along  an  em- 
bankment. Beyond  a  pond  of  moderate  extent, 
and  behind  apple-trees  and  clustering  lilacs,  an  old 
wooden  house  is  now  visible,  painted  red,  and  pos- 
sessing two  chimneys.  We  drive  along  a  paling 
on  the  left,  and  pass  through'  a  large  open  carriage 
entrance,  saluted  by  the  huskv  barkino-s  of  three 

«/  tJ  O 

old  worn-out  dogs.  My  groom  gallantly  salutes 
an  old  housekeeper,  who  is  peeping  out  of  the 
pantry  through  a  foot  and  a  half  window.  We 
draw  up  before  the  door  near  the  veranda  of  a 
gloomy  little  house.  It  is  the  abode  of  Tatiana 
Borissovna.  But  there  she  is  herself,  saluting  us 


48  A   RUSSIAN  LADY 

from  the  window.     "  Good  morning,  good  morn- 
ing, Madame." 

Tatiana  Borissovna  is  a  woman  of  about  fifty  ; 
she  has  large  bluish-gray  eyes,  slightly  prominent, 
a  nose  inclined  to  flatness,  cherry  cheeks,  and  a 
double  chin.  Her  face  beams  with  sweetness  and 
goodness.  She  once  had  a  husband,  but  so  long 
ago  that  no  one  has  any  recollection  of  it.  She 
scarcely  ever  leaves  her  little  property,  keeps  up 
but  a  slight  connection  with  her  neighbors,  seldom 
invites  them  to  her  house,  and  likes  none  but 
young  people.  Her  father  was  a  poor  gentleman, 
and  she  consequently  received  a  very  imperfect 
education  ;  in  other  words,  she  does  not  speak 
French,  and  has  never  seen  even  Moscow,  not 
to  speak  of  St.  Petersburg.  But,  spite  of  these 
little  defects,  she  manages  all  her  affairs  in  her 
country  life  so  simply  and  wisely  ;  she  has  so  large 
a  way  of  thinking,  of  feeling,  and  comprehending 
things  ;  she  is  so  little  accessible  to  the  thousand 
weaknesses  which  are  generally  found  in  our  good 
provincial  ladies,  —  poor  things,  —  that,  in  truth, 
one  cannot  help  admiring  her.  Only  consider 
that  she  lives  all  the  year  round  within  the  pre- 
cincts of  her  own  village  and  estate,  quite  isolated, 
and  that  she  remains  a  stranger  to  all  the  tittle- 
tattle  of  the  locality  ;  does  not  rail,  slander,  take 
offence,  or  choke  and  fret  with  curiosity  ;  that 
envy,  jealousy,  aversion,  and  restlessness  of  body 
and  mind,  are  all  unknown  to  her;  only  consider 


OF   THE  OLD  SCHOOL.  49 

this,  and  grant  that  she  is  a  marvel.  Every  day 
after  eleven  o'clock  she  is  dressed  in  a  gown  of 
iron-gray  taffeta,  and  a  white  cap  with  long  pure 
ribbons  ;  she  likes  to  eat,  and  make  others  do  the 
same  ;  but  she  eats  moderately,  and  lets  others  fol- 
low her  example.  Preserves,  fruits,  pickled  meats, 
are  all  intrusted  to  the  housekeeper.  With  what, 
then,  does  she  occupy  herself,  and  how  does  she 
fill  up  her  day  ?  She  reads,  perhaps,  you  will 
say.  No,  she  does  not  read ;  and,  to  speak  the 
truth,  people  must  think  of  others  than  Tatiana 
Borissovna  when  they  print  a  book.  In  winter, 
if  she  is  alone,  our  Tatiana  Borissovna  sits  near  a 
window,  and  quietly  knits  a  stocking ;  in  summer 
she  goes  and  comes  in  her  garden,  where  she 
plants  and  waters  flowers,  picks  the  caterpillars 
from  her  shrubs,  puts  props  under  her  bushes,  and 
sprinkles  sand  over  the  garden  paths ;  then  she 
can  amuse  herself  for  hours  with  the  feathered  race 
in  her  court-yard,  with  her  kittens  and  pigeons, 
all  of  which  she  feeds  herself.  She  occupies  her- 
self very  little  with  housekeeping.  If,  unexpect- 
edly, any  good  young  neighbor  chances  to  look  in, 
she  is  then  as  happy  as  possible  ;  she  establishes 
herself  upon  her  divan,  regales  her  visitor  with 
tea,  hears  all  he  has  to  say,  sometimes  gives  him 
little  friendly  pats  on  the  cheek,  laughs  heartily  at 
his  sallies,  and  speaks  little  herself.  Are  you 
annoyed,  or  the  victim  of  some  misfortune  ?  She 
consoles  you  with  the  most  sympathizing  words, 
3  i> 


50  A   RUSSIAN  LADY. 

and  opens  up  various  means  of  relief,  all  full  of 
good  sense.  How  many  there  are,  who,  after 
confiding  to  her  their  family  secrets  and  their 
private  griefs,  have  found  themselves  so  relieved 
by  unburdening  their  minds,  that  they  have  bathed 
her  hands  with  their  tears.  In  general,  she  sits 
right  before  her  guest,  her  head  leaning  lightly 

o  o  o       o        •/ 

on  her  left  hand,  looking  in  his  face  with  so  much 
kindly  interest,  smiling  with  such  friendly  good- 
nature, that  one  can  scarcely   keep  himself  from 
saying,  "  Ah  !  what  an  excellent  woman  you  are, 
Tatiana  Borissovna.     Come,  I  will  conceal  from 
you  nothing  that  weighs   upon   my  heart.  " 
In  her  delightful,  nice  little  rooms,  one 
is  so  pleased  with  himself  and  every- 
body,  that  he  is  unwilling  to 
leave  them  ;  in  this  little 
heaven,  the  weather 
is    always    at 
"set  fair." 

r 

THE  happiness  of  life  may  be  greatly  increased 
by  small  courtesies  in  which  there  is  no  parade, 
whose  voice  is  too  still  to  tease,  and  which  manifest 
themselves  by  tender  and  affectionate  looks,  and 
little  kind  acts  of  attention,  giving  others  the  pref- 
erence in  every  little  enjoyment  at  the  table,  in 
the  field,  walking,  sitting,  or  standing.  —  STERNE. 


THE    OLD    MAN'S   SONG 


TO    HIS    WIFE. 

OH,  don't  be  sorrowful,  darling ! 
Now  don't  be  sorrowful,  pray  ! 
For,  taking  the  year  together,  my  dear, 
There  is  n't  more  night  than  day. 

'T  is  rainy  weather,  my  darling ; 

Time's  waves  they  heavily  run  ; 
But,  taking  the  year  together,  my  dear, 

There  is  n't  more  cloud  than  sun. 

We  are  old  folks  now,  my  darling ; 

Our  heads  they  are  growing  gray ; 
But,  taking  the  year  all  round,  my  dear, 

You  will  always  find  the  May. 


We  Ve  had  our  May,  my  darling, 

And  our  roses,  long  ago  ; 
And  the  time  of  the  year  is  coming,  my  dear, 

For  the  Ions,  dark  nijrhts  and  the  snow. 


52  THE   OLD  MAN'S  SONG. 

But  God  is  God,  my  darling, 

Of  night,  as  well  as  of  day ; 
And  we  feel  and  know  that  we  can  go 

Wherever  He  leads  the  way. 

Ay,  God  of  the  night,  my  darling ; 

Of  the  night  of  death  so  grim. 
The  gate  that  from  life  leads  out,  good  wife, 

Is  the  gate  that  leads  to  Him. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE   TWENTY-SEVENTH   OF   MARCH. 

THE    BIRTHDAY    OF    . 

Now  be  the  hours  that  yet  remain  to  thee 

Stormy  or  sunny,  sympathy  and  love, 

That  inextinguishably  dwell  within 

Thy  heart,  shall  give  d  beauty  and  a  light 

To  the  most  desolate  moments,  like  the  glow 

Of  a  bright  fireside  in  the  wildest  day ; 

And  kindly  words  and  offices  of  good 

Shall  wait  upon  thy  steps,  as  thou  goest  on, 

Where  God  shall  lead  thee,  till  thou  reach  the  gates 

Of  a  more  genial  season,  and  thy  path 

Be  lost  to  human  eye  among  the  bowers 

And  living  fountains  of  a  brighter  land. 

WM.  C.  BRYANT. 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY    FOR 
GRANDFATHER. 

BY    CHARLES    DICKENS. 


NCE  upon  a  time,  a  good  many  years 
ago,  there  was  a  traveller,  and  he  set 
out  upon  a  journey.  It  was  a  magic 
journey,  and  was  to  seem  very  long 
when  he  began  it,  and  very  short  when  he  got 
half-way  through. 

He  travelled  along  a  rather  dark  path  for  some 
little  time,  without  meeting  anything,  until  at  last 
he  came  to  a  beautiful  child.  So  he  said  to  the 
child,  "  What  do  you  here  ?  "  And  the  child  said, 
"  Iain  always  at  play.  Come  and  play  with  me  !  " 
So,  he  played  with  that  child  the  whole  day 
long,  and  they  were  very  merry.  The  sky  was 
so  blue,  the  sun  was  so  bright,  the  water  was  so 
sparkling,  the  leaves  were  so  green,  the  flowers 
were  so  lovelv,  and  they  heard  such  singing-birds, 
and  saw  so  many  butterflies,  that  everything  was 
beautiful.  This  was  in  fine  weather.  When  it 


54  A    CHRISTMAS  STORY 

rained,  they  loved  to  watch  the  falling  drops  and 
to  smell  the  fresh  scents.  When  it  blew,  it  was 
delightful  to  listen  to  the  wind,  and  fancy  what  it 
said,  as  it  came  rushing  from  its  home  —  where 
was  that,  they  wondered  !  —  whistling  and  howl- 
ing, and  driving  the  clouds  before  it,  bending  the 
trees,  rumbling  in  the  chimneys,  shaking  the  house, 
and  making  the  sea  roar  in  fury.  But  when  it 
snowed,  that  was  the  best  of  all ;  for  they  liked 
nothing  so  well  as  to  look  up  at  the  white  flakes 
falling  fast  and  thick,  like  down  from  the  breasts 
of  millions  of  white  birds  ;  and  to  see  how  smooth 
and  deep  the  drift  was,  and  to  listen  to  the  hush 
upon  the  paths  and  roads. 

They  had  plenty  of  the  finest  toys  in  the  world, 
and  the  most  astonishing  picture-books,  all  about 
scimitars  and  slippers  and  turbans,  and  dwarfs  and 
giants,  and  genii  and  fairies,  and  blue-beards  and 
bean-stalks,  and  riches,  and  caverns  and  forests, 
and  Valentines  and  Orsons  :  and  all  new  and  all 
true. 

But  one  day,  of  a  sudden,  the  traveller  lost  the 
child.  He  called  to  him  over  and  over  again,  but 
got  no  answer.  So,  he  went  upon  his  road,  and 
went  on  for  a  little  while  without  meeting  any- 
thing, until  at  last  he  came  to  a  handsome  boy. 
So,  he  said  to  the  boy,  "  What  do  you  here  ?  " 
And  the  boy  said,  "  I  am  always  learning.  Come 
and  learn  with  me." 

So  he  learned  with  that  boy  about  Jupiter  and 


FOR   GRANDFATHER.  55 

Juno,  and  the  Greeks  and  the  Romans,  and  I 
don't  know  what,  and  learned  more  than  I  could 
tell,  —  or  he  either ;  for  he  soon  forgot  a  great 
deal  of  it.  But  they  were  not  always  learning  ; 
they  had  the  merriest  games  that  ever  were  played. 
They  rowed  upon  the  river  in  summer,  and  skated 
on  the  ice  in  winter ;  they  were  active  afoot,  and 
active  on  horseback  ;  at  cricket,  and  all  games  at 
ball ;  at  prisoners'  base,  hare  and  hounds,  follow 
my  leader,  and  more  sports  than  I  can  think  of; 
nobody  could  beat  them.  They  had  holidavs,  too, 
and  Twelfth  cakes,  and  parties  where  they  danced 
all  night  till  midnight,  and  real  theatres,  where 
they  saw  palaces  of  real  gold  and  silver  rise  out 
of  the  real  earth,  and  saw  all  the  wonders  of  the 
world  at  once.  As  to  friends,  they  had  such  dear 
friends,  and  so  many  of  them,  that  I  want  the  time 
to  reckon  them  up.  They  were  all  young,  like  the 
handsome  boy,  and  were  never  to  be  strange  to 
one  another  all  their  lives  through. 

Still,  one  day,  in  the  midst  of  all  these  pleasures, 
the  traveller  lost  the  boy,  as  he  had  lost  the  child, 
and,  after  calling  on  him  in  vain,  went  on  upon 
his  journey.  So  he  went  on  for  a  little  while 
without  seeing  anything,  until  at  last  he  came  to 
a  young  man.  So,  he  said  to  the  young  man, 
"What  do  you  here?"  And  the  young  man 
said,  "  I  am  always  in  love.  Come  and  love  with 
me." 

So,   he  went  away  with  that  young  man,  and 


56  ^    CHRISTMAS  STORY 

presently  they  came  to  one  of  the  prettiest  girls 
that  ever  was  seen,  — just  like  Fanny  in  the  corner 
there,  —  and  she  had  eyes  like  Fanny,  and  hair 
like  Fanny,  and  dimples  like  Fanny's,  and  she 
laughed  and  colored  just  as  Fanny  does  while  I 
am  talking  about  her.  So,  the  young  man  fell  in 
love  directly, — just  as  Somebody  I  won't  mention, 
the  first  time  he  came  here,  did  with  Fannv. 
Well !  He  was  teased  sometimes,  — just  as  Some- 
body used  to  be  by  Fanny  ;  and  they  quarrelled 
sometimes,  —  just  as  Somebody  and  Fanny  used 
to  quarrel ;  and  they  made  it  up,  and  sat  in  the 
dark,  and  wrote  letters  every  day,  and  never 
were  happy  asunder,  and  were  always  looking 
out  for  one  another,  and  pretending  not  to,  and 
were  engaged  at  Christmas  time,  and  sat  close  to 
one  another  by  the  fire,  and  were  going  to  be 
married  very  soon,  —  all  exactly  like  Somebody  I 
won't  mention  and  Fanny  ! 

But  the  traveller  lost  them  one  day,  as  he  had 
lost  the  rest  of  his  friends,   and,   after   callincr  to 

'  '  ~ 

them  to  come  back,  which  they  never  did,  went 
on  upon  his  journey.  So,  he  went  on  for  a  little 
while  without  seeing  anything,  until  at  last  he 
came  to  a  middle-aged  gentleman.  So,  he  said  to 
the  gentleman,  "What  are  you  doing  here?" 
And  his  answer  was,  "  I  am  always  busy.  Come 
and  be  busy  with  me  !  " 

So,   then  he  began   to  be  very  busy  with  that 
gentleman,  and  they  went  on  through  the  wood 


FOR   GRANDFATHER.  57 

together.  The  whole  journey  was  through  a 
wood,  only  it  had  been  open  and  green  at  first, 
like  a  wood  in  spring ;  and  now  began  to  be  thick 
and  dark,  like  a  wood  in  summer ;  some  of  the 
little  trees  that  had  come  out  earliest  were  even 
turning  brown.  The  gentleman  was  not  alone, 
but  had  a  lady  of  about  the  same  age  with  him, 
who  was  his  wife :  and  they  had  children,  who 
were  with  them  too.  So,  they  all  went  on  to- 
gether through  the  wood,  cutting  down  the  trees, 
and  making  a  path  through  the  branches  and  the 
fallen  leaves,  and  carrying  burdens,  and  working 
hard. 

Sometimes  they  came  to  a  long  green  avenue 
that  opened  into  deeper  woods.  Then  they  would 
hear  a  very  little  distant  voice  crying,  "  Father, 
father,  I  am  another  child !  Stop  for  me !  " 
And  presently  they  would  see  a  very  little  figure, 
growing  larger  as  it  came  along,  running  to  join 
them.  When  it  came  up,  they  all  crowded 
round  it,  and  kissed  and  welcomed  it ;  and  then 
they  all  went  on  together. 

Sometimes  they  came  to  several  avenues  at 
once  ;  and  then  they  all  stood  still,  and  one  of  the 
children  said,  "  Father,  I  am  going  to  sea  "  ;  and 
another  said,  "  Father,  I  am  going  to  India  "  ;  and 
another,  "  Father,  I  am  going  to  seek  my  fortune 
where  I  can  "  :  and  another,  "  Father,  I  am  o;oincr 

*  '  *  O  O 

to  heaven ! ''  So,  with  many  tears  at  parting, 
they  went,  solitary,  down  those  avenues,  each 

3*  " 


58  A    CHRISTMAS  STORY 

child  upon  its  way;  and  the  child  who  went  to 
heaven,  rose  into  the  golden  air  and  vanished. 

Whenever  these  partings  happened,  the  traveller 
looked  at  the  gentleman,  and  saw  him  glance  up 
at  the  sky  above  the  trees,  where  the  day  was 
beginning  to  decline,  and  the  sunset  to  come  on. 
He  saw,  too,  that  his  hair  was  turning  gray.  But 
they  never  could  rest  long,  for  they  had  their  jour- 
ney to  perform,  and  it  was  necessary  for  them  to 
be  always  busy. 

At  last,  there  had  been  so  many  partings  that 
there  were  no  children  left,  and  only  the  traveller, 
the  gentleman,  and  the  lady  went  upon  their  way 
in  company.  And  now  the  wood  was  yellow  ; 
and  now  brown  ;  and  the  leaves,  even  of  the 
forest-trees,  began  to  fall. 

So  they  came  to  an  avenue  that  was  darker 
than  the  rest,  and  were  pressing  forward  on  their 
journey  without  looking  down  it,  when  the  lady 
stopped. 

"  My  husband,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  am  called." 

They  listened,  and  they  heard  a  voice  a  long 
way  down  the  avenue  say,  "  Mother,  mother  !  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  first  child  who  had  said, 
"  I  am  going  to  heaven  !  "  and  the  father  said, 
"  I  pray  not  yet.  The  sunset  is  very  near.  I 
pray  not  yet." 

But  the  voice  cried,  "  Mother,  mother  !  "  with- 
out minding  him,  though  his  hair  was  now  quite 
white,  and  tears  were  on  his  face. 

Then,  the  mother,  who  was  already  drawn  into 


FOR   GRANDFATHER.  59 

the  sb,ade  of  the  dark  avenue,  and  moving  away 
with  her  arms  still  around  his  neck,  kissed  him  and 
said,  "  My  dearest,  I  am  summoned,  and  I  go  !  " 
And  she  was  gone.  And  the  traveller  and  he 

O 

were  left  alone  together. 

And  they  went  on  and  on  together,  until  they 
came  to  very  near  the  end  of  the  wood  ;  so  near, 
that  they  could  see  the  sunset  shining  red  before 
them  through  the  trees. 

Yet,  once  more,  while  he  broke  his  way  among 
the  branches,  the  traveller  lost  his  friend.  He 
called  and  called,  but  there  was  no  reply,  and 
when  he  passed  out  of  the  wood  and  saw  the 
peaceful  sun  going  down  upon  a  wide  purple  pros- 
pect, he  came  to  an  old  man  sitting  upon  a  fallen 
tree.  So,  he  said  to  the  old  man,  "  What  do 
you  here  ?  "  And  the  old  man  said,  with  a  calm 
smile,  "  I  am  always  remembering.  Come  and 
remember  with  me." 

So,  the  traveller  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  old 
man,  face  to  face  with  the  serene  sunset ;  and  all 
his  friends  came  softly  back  and  stood  around  him. 
The  beautiful  child,  the  handsome  boy,  the  young 
man  in  love,  the  father,  mother,  and  children  : 
every  one  of  them  was  there,  and  he  had  lost 
nothing.  So,  he  loved  them  all,  and  was  kind  and 
forbearing  with  them  all,  and  was  always  pleased 
to  watch  them  all,  and  they  all  honored  and  loved 
him.  And  I  think  the  traveller  must  be  yourself, 
dear  grandfather,  because  it  is  what  you  do  to  us, 
and  what  we  do  to  you. 


JOHN   ANDERSON,    MY  JO. 

BY   ROBERT   BURNS. 

JOHN  ANDERSON,  my  jo,  John, 
When  we  were  first  acquent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent  *  ; 
But  now  your  head  's  turned  bald,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snow ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 
John  Anderson,  ray  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither ; 
And  mony  a  canty  f  day,  John, 

We  've  had  wi'  ane  anither  : 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we  '11  go, 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

When  thoughtful  people  sing  these  admirable  verses,  they  are 
apt  to  long  to  hear  of  something  beyond  the  foot  of  the  hill. 
This  want  has  been  extremely  well  supplied  by  Mr.  Charles 
Gould,  of  New  York,  in  the  following  verse  :  — 

*  Smooth.  t  Merry. 


JOHN  ANDERSON,  MY  JO.  61 

& 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  have  slept  thegither 
The  sleep  that  a'  maun  sleep,  John, 

We  '11  wake  wi'  ane  anither  : 
And  in  that  better  warld,  John, 

Nae  sorrow  shall  we  know ; 
Nor  fear  we  e'er  shall  part  again, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 


OLD   FOLKS  AT   HOME. 

MORE  pleasant  seem  their  own  surroundings, 

Though  quaint  and  old, 
Than  newer  homes,  with  their  aboundings 

Of  marble,  silk,  and  gold. 
For  't  is  the  heart  inspires  home-feelings, 

In  hut  or  hall, 
Where  memory,  with  its  fond  revealings, 

Sheds  a  tender  light  o'er  all. 

They  love  the  wonted  call  to  meeting, 

By  their  old  bell ; 
They  love  the  old  familiar  greeting 

From  friends  who  know  them  well. 
Their  homesick  hearts  are  always  yearning, 

When  they  're  away  ; 
And  ever  is  their  memory  turning 

To  scenes  where  they  used  to  stay. 

L.  M.  C. 


EVERLASTING    YOUTH 


BY  REV.  EDMUND  H.  SEARS.* 


;?LD  age,  in  some  of  its  aspects,  is  a 
most  interesting  and  solemn  mystery, 
though  to  the  outward  eye  it  is  mere- 
ly the  gradual  waning  and  extinction 
of  existence.  All  the  faculties  fold  themselves  up 
to  a  long,  last  sleep.  First,  the  senses  begin  to 
close,  and  lock  in  the  soul  from  the  outward  world. 
The  hearing  is  generally  the  first  to  fail,  shutting 
off  the  mind  from  the  tones  of  affection  and  of 
melody.  The  sight  fails  next ;  and  the  pictures 
of  beauty,  on  the  canvas  spread  round  us  morn- 
ing and  evening,  become  blurred.  The  doors  and 
windows  are  shut  toward  the  street.  The  invasion 
keeps  on  steadily  toward  the  seat  of  life.  The 
images  of  the  memory  lose  their  outline,  run 
together,  and  at  last  melt  away  into  darkness. 
Now  and  then,  by  a  special  effort,  rents  are  made 
in  the  clouds,  and  we  see  a  vista  opening  through 

*  From  Foreglcams  of  Immortality. 


EVERLASTING   YOUTH.  63 

the  green  glades  of  other  years.  But  the  edges 
of  the  cloud  soon  close  again.  It  settles  down 
more  densely  than  ever,  and  all  the  past  is  blotted 
out.  Then  the  reason  fails,  and  the  truths  it  had 
elaborated  flicker  and  are  extinguished.  Only  the 
affections  remain.  Happy  for  us,  if  these  also 
have  not  become  soured  or  chilled.  It  is  our  be- 
lief, however,  that  these  may  be  preserved  in  their 
primitive  freshness  and  glow ;  and  that  in  the  old 
age  where  the  work  of  regeneration  is  consum- 
mating, the  affections  are  always  preserved  bright 
and  sweet,  like  roses  of  Eden,  occupying  a  charmed 
spot  in  the  midst  of  snows.  In  old  age,  men  gen- 
erally seem  to  have  grown  either  better  or  worse. 
The  reason  is,  that  the  internal  life  is  then  more 
revealed,  and  its  spontaneous  workings  are  more 
fully  manifested.  The  intellectual  powers  are  no 
longer  vigilant  to  control  the  expression  of  the  in- 
ternal feelings,  and  so  the  heart  is  generally  laid 
open.  What  we  call  the  moroseness  and  peevish- 
ness of  ao-e  is  none  other  than  the  real  disposition, 

O  4.  ' 

no  longer  hedged  in,  and  kept  in  decency,  by  the 
intellect,  but  coming  forth  without  disguise.  So 
again,  that  beautiful  simplicity  and  infantile  meek- 
ness, sometimes  apparent  in  old  age,  beaming 
forth,  like  the  dawn  of  the  coming  heaven,  through 
all  the  relics  of  natural  decay,  are  the  spontaneous 
effusions  of  sanctified  affections.  There  is,  there- 
fore, a  good  and  a  bad  sense,  in  which  we  speak 
of  the  second  childhood.  Childhood  is  the  state 


64  EVERLASTING   YOUTH. 

of  spontaneity.  In  the  first  childhood,  before  the 
intellect  is  formed,  the  heart  answers  truly  to  all 
impressions  from  without ;  as  the  ^Eolian  harp 
answers  to  every  touch  of  the  breeze.  In  the 
second  childhood,  after  the  intellect  is  broken 
down,  the  same  phenomenon  comes  round  again  ; 
and  in  it  you  read  the  history  of  all  the  interven- 
ing years.  What  those  years  have  done  for  the 
regeneration  of  the  soul  will  appear,  now  that  its 
inmost  state  is  translucent,  no  longer  concealed  by 
the  expediencies  learned  of  intellectual  prudence. 
When  the  second  childhood  is  true  and  genial, 
the  work  of  regeneration  approaches  its  consum- 
mation :  and  the  lio;ht  of  heaven  is  reflected  from 

*  O 

silver  hairs,  as  if  one  stood  nearer  to  Paradise,  and 
caught  reflections  of  the  resurrection  glories. 

But  alas  !  is  this  all  that  is  left  of  us,  amid 
the  memorials  of  natural  decay  ?  Senses,  memory, 
reason,  all  blotted  out,  in  succession,  and  instinc- 
tive affection  left  alone  to  its  spontaneous  workings, 
like  a  solitary  flower  breathing  its  fragrance  upon 
snows  ?  And  how  do  we  know  but  this,  too,  will 
close  up  its  leaves,  and  fall  before  the  touch  of  the 
invader  ?  Then  the  last  remnant  of  the  man  is  no 
more.  Or,  if  otherwise,  must  so  many  souls  enter 
upon  their  immortality  denuded  of  everything  but 
the  heart's  inmost  and  ruling  love  ? 

How  specious  and  deceptive  are  natural  appear- 
ances !  What  seemed  to  the  outward  eye  the  wan- 
ing of  existence,  and  the  loss  of  faculties,  is  only 


EVERLASTING   YOUTH.  65 

locking  them  up  successively,  in  order  to  keep 
them  more  secure.  Old  age,  rather  than  death, 
answers  strictly  to  the  analogies  of  sleep.  It  is  the 
gradual  folding  in  and  closing  up  of  all  the  volun- 
tary powers,  after  they  have  become  worn  and 
tired,  that  they  may  wake  again  refreshed  and 
renovated  for  the  higher  work  that  awaits  them. 
The  psychological  evidence  is  pretty  full  and  deci- 
sive, that  old  age  is  sleep,  but  not  decay.  The 
reason  lives,  though  its  eye  is  temporarily  closed  ; 
and  some  future  day  it  will  give  a  more  perfect 
and  pliant  form  to  the  affections.  Memory  re- 
mains, though  its  functions  are  suspended  for  a 
while.  All  its  chambers  may  be  exhumed  here- 
after, and  their  frescoes,  like  those  of  the  buried 
temples  at  Meroe,  will  be  found  preserved  in  un- 
fading colors.  The  whole  record  of  our  life  is  laid 
up  within  us  ;  and  only  the  overlayings  of  the 
physical  man  prevent  the  record  from  being  alwavs 
visible.  The  years  leave  their  debris  successivelv 
upon  the  spiritual  nature,  till  it  seems  buried  and 
lost  beneath  the  layers.  On  the  old  man's  memory 
every  period  seems  to  have  obliterated  a  former 
one  ;  but  the  life  which  he  has  lived  can  no  more 
be  lost  to  him,  or  destroyed,  than  the  rock-strata 
can  be  destroyed  by  being  buried  under  layers  of 
sand.  In  those  hours  when  the  bondage  of  the 

O 

senses  is  less  firm,  and  the  life  within  has  freer 
motion  ;  or,  in  those  hours  of  self-revelation,  which 
are  sometimes  experienced  under  a  clearer  and 


66  EVERLASTING    YOUTH. 

more  pervading  light  from  above,  —  the  past  with- 
draws its  veil ;  and  we  see,  rank  beyond  rank,  as 
along  the  rows  of  an  expanding  amphitheatre,  the 
images  of  successive  years,  called  out  as  by  some 
wand  of  enchantment.  There  are  abundant  facts, 
which  go  to  prove  that  the  decline  and  forgetful- 
ness  of  years  are  nothing  more  than  the  hardening 
of  the  mere  envelopment  of  the  man,  shutting  in  the 
inmost  life,  which  merely  waits  the  hour  to  break 
away  from  its  bondage. 

De  Quincey  says  :  "  I  am  assured  that  there  is 
no  such  thing  as  forgetting  possible  to  the  mind. 
A  thousand  circumstances  may  and  will  interpose 
a  veil  between  our  present  consciousness  and  the 
secret  inscriptions  of  the  mind  ;  but  alike,  whether 
veiled  or  unveiled,  the  inscription  remains  forever ; 
just  as  the  stars  seem  to  withdraw  from  the  com- 
mon light  of  day  ;  whereas,  we  all  know  that  it  is 
the  light  which  is  drawn  over  them,  as  a  veil,  and 
that  they  are  waiting  to  be  revealed,  when  the 
obscuring  daylight  shall  have  withdrawn." 

The  resurrection  is  the  exact  inverse  of  natural 
decay  ;  and  the  former  is  preparing  ere  the  latter 
has  ended.  The  affections,  being  the  inmost  life, 

'  O  » 

are  the  nucleus  of  the  whole  man.  They  are  the 
creative  and  organific  centre,  whence  are  formed 
the  reason  and  the  memory,  and  thence  their  em- 
bodiment in  the  more  outward  form  of  members 
and  organs.  The  whole  interior  mechanism  is 
complete  in  the  chrysalis,  ere  the  wings,  spotted 


EVERLASTING    YOUTH.  67 

with  light,  are  fluttering  in  the  zephyrs  of  morn- 
ing. St.  Paul,  who,  in  this  connection,  is  speak- 
ing specially  of  the  resurrection  of  the  just,  pre- 
sents three  distinct  points  of  contrast  between 
the  natural  body  and  the  spiritual.  One  is  weak, 
the  other  is  strong.  One  is  corruptible,  the  other 
is  incorruptible.  One  is  without  honor,  the  other 
is  glorious.  By  saying  that  one  is  natural,  and 
the  other  spiritual,  he  certainly  implies  that  one  is 
better  adapted  than  the  other  to  do  the  functions 
of  spirit,  and  more  perfectly  to  organize  and  man- 
ifest its  powers.  How  clearly  conceivable  then  is 
it  that  when  man  becomes  free  of  the  coverings  of 

o 

mere  natural  decay,  he  comes  into  complete  pos- 
session of  all  that  he  is,  and  all  that  he  has  ever 
lived  ;  that  leaf  after  leaf  in  our  whole  book  of  life 
is  opened  backward,  and  all  its  words  and  letters 
come  out  in  more  vivid  colors  ! 

In   the   other  life,  therefore,  appears   the  won- 
derful   paradox   that    the    oldest    people    are    the 
youngest.     To  grow  in  age  is  to  come  into  ever- 
lasting  youth.     To    become    old    in  years  is 
to   put    on    the    freshness    of   perpetual 
prime.      We  drop  from  us  the  de- 
bris of  the  past,  we  breathe  the 
ether  of  immortality,  and 
our    cheeks    mantle 
with    eternal 
bloom. 


LIFE. 


THE  following  lines  were  by  Mrs.  Anna  Letitia  Barbauld,  an 
English  writer  of  great  merit,  extensively  known  as  the  author 
of  excellent  Hymns,  and  Early  Lessons  for  Children.  She  was 
bom  in  1743,  and  lived  to  be  nearly  eighty-two  years  old.  She 
employed  the  latter  part  of  her  life  in  editing  a  series  of  the  best 
English  novels  and  essays,  accompanied  with  biographical  sketches 
of  the  authors ;  and  compositions  in  prose  and  verse  continued 
to  be  her  favorite  occupation  to  the  last. 

LIFE  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art, 
But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part ; 
And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met, 
I  own  to  me  's  a  secret  yet. 

Life  !  we  have  been  long  together, 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather. 
'T  is  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear ; 
Perhaps  't  will  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear. 
Then  steal  away ;  give  little  warning ; 

Choose  thine  own  time  ; 
Say  not  Good  Night ;  but  in  some  brighter  clime 

Bid  me  Good  Morning ! 


THE    MYSTERIOUS    PILGRIMAGE. 


BY  L.  MARIA    CHILD. 


HERE  was  a  traveller  who  set  out, 
upon  a  new  road,  not  knowing  whith- 
er it  would  lead  him,  nor  whence  he 
came,  for  he  had  been  conveyed  thither 
blindfold,  and  the  bandage  had  been  removed  in 
his  sleep.  When  he  woke  up  he  found  himself 
among  alt  sorts  of  pretty  novelties,  and  he  ran 
about  hither  and  thither,  eagerly  asking,  "  What 
is  this?"  "What  is  that?"  His  activity  was 
untiring.  He  tried  to  catch  everything  he  saw, 
and  hold  it  fast  in  his  hand.  But  humming-birds 

c? 

whirred  in  his  ears,  and  as  soon  as  he  tried  to 
grasp  them  they  soared  up  out  of  his  reach,  and 
left  him  gazing  at  their  burnished  throats  glisten- 
ing in  the  sunshine.  Daintily  painted  butterflies 
poised  themselves  on  such  lowly  flowers,  that  he 
thought  he  had  but  to  stoop  and  take  them  ;  but 
they  also  floated  away  as  soon  as  he  approached. 
He  walked  through  stately  groves,  where  the 


70          THE  MYSTERIOUS  PILGRIMAGE. 

sunshine  was  waltzing  with  leaf-shadows,  and  he 
tried  to  pick  up  the  airy  little  dancers.  "  They 
won't  let  me  catch  'em  !  "  he  exclaimed,  petulantly. 
But  on  he  hurried  in  pursuit  of  a  squirrel,  which 
ran  nimbly  away  from  him  up  into  a  tree,  and 
there  he  sat  on  the  high  boughs,  flourishing  his 
pretty  tail  in  the  air.  And  so  the  traveller  went 
along  the  wondrous  road,  always  trying  for  some- 
thinf  he  could  n't  catch,  not  knowing  that  the 

O  '  O 

pleasure  was  in  the  pursuit. 

As  he  went  on,  the  path  widened  and  grew 
more  attractive.  Birds  of  radiant  colors  flitted 
about,  and  filled  the  air  with  charming  variations 
of  melody.  Trees  threw  down  showers  of  blos- 
soms as  he  passed,  and  beneath  his  feet  was  a  car- 
pet of  emerald-colored  velvet,  embroidered  with  a 
profusion  of  golden  stars.  Better  than  all,  troops 
of  handsome  young  men  and  lovely  maidens  joined 
him,  all  put  blindfolded  into  the  road,  and  travel- 
ling they  knew  not  whither.  And  now  they  all  set 
out  upon  a  race  after  something  higher  up  than 
squirrels  or  butterflies  could  go.  "  Look  there  ! 
Look  there  !  See  what  is  before  us  !  "  they  ex- 
claimed. And  lo  !  they  all  saw,  away  beyond,  on 
hills  of  fleecy  cloud,  the  most  beautiful  castles  ! 
The  walls  were  of  pearl,  and  rainbow  pennons 
waved  from  the  gold-pointed  turrets.  "  We  will 
take  possession  of  those  beautiful  castles  !  That 
is  where  we  are  going  to  live  !  "  they  shouted  to 
each  other ;  and  on  they  ran  in  pursuit  of  the 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  PILGRIMAGE.         71 

rainbows.  But  they  often  paused  in  the  chase,  to 
frolic  together.  They  laughed,  and  sang  merry 
songs,  and  pelted  each  other  with  flowers,  and 
danced  within  a  ring  of  roses.  It  was  a  beautiful 
sight  to  see  their  silky  ringlets  tossed  about  by  the 
breeze,  and  shining  in  the  sunlight.  But  the  game 
they  liked  best  was  looking  into  each  other's  eyes. 
They  said  they  could  see  a  blind  boy  there,  with 
a  bow  and  arrow  ;  and  always  they  were  playing 
bo-peep  with  that  blind  boy,  who  was  n't  so  blind 
as  he  seemed  ;  for  whenever  he  aimed  his  arrow 
at  one  of  them,  he  was  almost  sure  to  hit.  But 
they  said  the  arrow  was  wreathed  with  flowers, 
and  carried  honey  on  its  point ;  and  there  was 
nothing  they  liked  quite  so  well  as  being  shot  at 
by  the  blind  boy. 

Sometimes  their  sport  was  interrupted  by  some 
stern-looking  traveller,  who  said  to  them,  in  solemn 
tones,  "  Why  do  you  make  such  fools  of  your- 
selves ?  Do  you  know  whither  this  road  leads  ?  " 
Then  they  looked  at  each  other  bewildered,  and 
said  they  did  not.  "  I  have  been  on  this  road 
much  longer  than  you  have,"  he  replied  ;  "  and 
I  think  it  is  my  duty  to  turn  back  sometimes 
and  warn  those  who  are  coming  after  me.  I  tell 
you  this  road,  where  you  go  dancing  so  care- 
lessly, abounds  with  pitfalls,  generally  concealed 
by  flowers  ;  and  it  ends  in  an  awful,  deep,  dark 
hole.  You  are  all  running,  like  crazy  fools,  af- 
ter rainbow  castles  in  the  air.  You  will  never 


72         THE  MYSTERIOUS  PILGRIMAGE. 

come  up  with  them.  They  will  vanish  and  leave 
nothing  but  a  great  black  cloud.  But  what  you 
have  most  to  fear  is  a  cruel  giant,  who  is  sure  to 
meet  you  somewhere  on  the  road.  Nobody  ever 
knows  where  ;  for  he  is  invisible.  Whatever  he 
touches  with  his  dart  turns  first  to  marble  and 
then  to  ashes.  You  ought  to  be  thinking  of  him 
and  his  dreadful  arrow,  instead  of  the  foolish 
archer  that  you  call  the  blind  boy.  Instead  of 
chattering  about  roses  and  rainbows,  you  ought 
to  be  thinking  of  the  awful  black  pit  at  the  end 
of  the  road." 

His  words  chilled  the  young  men  and  maidens, 
like  wind  from  a  cavern.  They  looked  at  each 
other  thoughtfully,  and  said,  "  Why  does  he  try 
to  spoil  our  sport  with  stones  of  pitfalls  and  invisi- 
ble giants  ?  We  don't  know  where  the  pitfalls 

c?  1 

are  ;  and  if  we  go  poking  on  the  ground  for  them, 
how  can  we  see  the  sunshine  and  the  birds  ? " 
Some  of  the  more  merry  began  to  laugh  at  the 
solemn  traveller,  and  soon  they  were  all  dancing 
again,  or  hurrying  after  the  rainbow  castles.  They 
threw  roses  at  each  other  by  the  way  ;  and  often 
the  little  blind  archer  was  in  the  heart  of  the 
roses,  and  played  them  mischievous  tricks.  They 
laughed  merrily,  and  said  to  each  other,  "  This  is 
a  beautiful 'road.  It  is  a  pity  old  Howlit  don't 
know  how  to  enjoy  it." 

But  as  our  traveller  passed  on  his  way,  he 
found  that  the  words  of  the  lugubrious  prophet 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  PILGRIMAGE.         73 

were  sometimes  verified.  Now  and  then  some 
of  his  companions  danced  into  pitfalls  covered  with 
flowers.  He  himself  slipped  several  times,  but 
recovered  his  balance,  and  said  it  would  teach  him 
to  walk  more  carefully.  Others  were  bruised  and 
faint  in  consequence  of  falls,  and  made  no  effort 
to  rise  up.  In  the  kindness  of  his  heart,  he  would 
not  leave  them  thus  ;  but  always  he  tried  to  cheer 
them,  saying,  "  Up,  and  try  again,  my  brother ! 
You  won't  make  the  same  mistake  again."  Cheer- 
ful and  courageous  as  he  was,  however,  he  saw  the 
rainbow  castles  gradually  fading  from  his  vision  ; 
but  they  did  not  leave  a  great  black  cloud,  as  the 
solemn  traveller  had  foretold  ;  they  melted  into 
mild  and  steady  sunlight.  The  young  men  and 
maidens,  who  had  frolicked  with  him,  went  off  in 
pairs,  some  into  one  bypath,  some  into  another. 
Hand  in  hand  with  our  traveller  went  a  gentle 

O 

companion,  named  Mary,  in  whose  eyes  he  had 
long  been  playing  at  bo-peep  with  the  blind  boy. 
When  they  talked  of  this,  they  said  they  could 
still  see  him  in  each  other's  eye-mirrors,  but  now 
he  had  put  his  arrows  into  the  quiver,  and  was 
stringing  pearls.  Mary  brought  little  children 
to  her  companion,  and  they  were  more  charming 
than  all  the  playthings  of  their  former  time.  They 
gazed  fondly  into  the  eyes  of  the  little  strangers, 
and  said,  "  We  see  angels  in  these  azure  depths, 
and  they  are  lovelier  than  the  blind  boy  ever 
was."  They  played  no  more  with  roses  now,  but 

4 


74         THE  MYSTERIOUS  PILGRIMAGE. 

gathered  ripe  fruits,  glowing  like  red  and  purple 
jewels,  and  planted  grain  which  grew  golden  in 
the  sunshine.  Companions  with  whom  they  had 
parted  by  the  way  occasionally  came  into  their 
path  again,  as  they  journeyed  on.  Their  moods 
were  various,  according  to  their  experiences. 
Some  still  talked  joyfully  of  the  ever- varying  beau- 
ty of  the  road.  Others  sighed  deeply,  and  said 
they  had  found  nothing  to  console  them  for 
withered  roses,  and  rainbows  vanished.  Some- 
times, when  inquiries  were  made  about  former 
acquaintances,  the  answer  was  that  the  invisible 
giant  had  touched  them,  and  they  had  changed  to 
marble.  Then  a  shadow  seemed  to  darken  the 
pleasant  road,  and  they  spoke  to  each  other  in  low 
tones.  Some  of  those  who  sighed  over  withered 
roses,  told  of  frightful  things  done  by  this  invisible 
giant,  and  of  horrid  places  whither  they  had  heard 
he  conveyed  his  victims.  To  children  who  were 
chasing  butterflies,  and  to  young  men  and  maidens 
who  were  twining  rose-wreaths,  they  said,  "  You 
ought  not  to  be  wasting  your  time  with  such  friv- 
olous pastimes ;  you  ought  to  be  thinking  of  the 
awful  invisible  one,  who  is  near  us  when  we  least 
think  of  it."  They  spoke  in  lugubrious  tones,  as 
the  solemn  traveller  had  aforetime  spoken  to  them. 
But  our  traveller,  who  was  cheerful  of  heart,  said : 
"  It  is  not  kind  to  throw  a  shadow  across  their 
sunshine.  Let  them  enjoy  themselves."  And  his 
Mary  asked  whether  HE  who  made  the  beautiful 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  PILGRIMAGE.         75 

road  had  wasted  time  when  HE  made  the  roses 
and  the  butterflies  ?  And  why  had  HE  made 
them,  if  they  were  not  to  be  enjoyed  ? 

But  clouds  sometimes  came  over  this  sunshine 
of  their  souls.  One  of  the  little  cherub  boys 
whom  Mary  had  brought  to  her  companion  re- 
ceived the  invisible  touch,  and  became  as  marble. 
Then  a  shadow  fell  across  their  path,  and  went 
with  them  as  they  walked.  They  pressed  each 
other's  hands  in  silence,  but  the  thought  was  ever 
in  their  hearts,  "  Whom  will  he  touch  next  ? " 
The  little  cherub  was  not  in  the  marble  form  ;  he 
was  still  with  them,  though  they  knew  it  not. 
Gradually  their  pain  was  softened,  and  they  found 
comfort  in  remembering  his  winning  ways.  Mary 
said  to  her  companion  :  "  As  we  have  travelled 
along  this  mysterious  road,  the  scenery  has  been 
continually  changing,  even  as  we  have  changed. 
But  one  form  of  beauty  has  melted  into  another, 
so  gently,  so  imperceptibly,  that  we  have  been 
unconscious  of  the  change,  until  it  had  passed. 
Where  all  is  so  full  of  blessing,  dearest,  it  cannot 
be  that  this  invisible  touch  is  an  exception."  The 
traveller  sighed,  and  merely  answered,  "  It  is  a 
great  mystery  "  ;  but  her  words  fell  on  his  heart 
like  summer  dew  on  thirsty  flowers.  They 
thought  of  the  cherub  boy,  who  had  disappeared 
from  their  vision,  and  the  tears  dropped  slowly  ; 
but  as  they  fell,  a  ray  of  light. from  heaven  kissed 
them  and  illumined  them  with  rainbows.  They 


76         THE  MYSTERIOUS  PILGRIMAGE. 

clasped  each  other's  hands  more  closely,  and  trav- 
elled on.  Sometimes  they  smiled  at  each  other, 
as  they  looked  on  their  remaining  little  ones, 
running  hither  and  thither  chasing  the  bright  but- 
terflies. And  Mary,  who  was  filled  with  gentle 
wisdom,  said,  "  The  butterfly  was  once  a  crawling 
worm  ;  but  when  it  became  stiff  and  cold,  there 
emerged  from  it  this  winge'd  creature,  clothed  with 
beauty."  He  pressed  her  hand  tenderly ;  for 
again  her  soothing  words  fell  upon  his  heart  like 
dew  on  thirsty  flowers. 

Thus  lovingly  they  passed  on  together,  and 
many  a  blessing  followed  them  ;  for  whenever  a 
traveller  came  along  who  was  burdened  and  weary, 
they  cheered  him  with  hopeful  words  and  helped 
to  carry  his  load  ;  and  ever  as  they  did  so  a  softer 
light  shone  upon  the  landscape^  and  bathed  all 
things  with  a  luminous  glory.  And  still  the  scene 
was  changing,  ever  changing.  The  glowing  fruit 
had  disappeared,  and  the  golden  grain  was  gath- 
ered. But  now  the  forest-trees  were  all  aglow, 
and  looked  like  great  pyramids  of  gorgeous  flow- 
ers. The  fallen  foliage  of  the  pines  formed  a  soft 
carpet  under  their  feet,  ornamented  with  the  shad- 
ed brown  of  cones  and  acorns,  and  sprinkled 
with  gold-tinted  leaves  from  the  trees.  As  they 
looked  on  the  mellowed  beauty  of  the  scenery, 
Mary  said  :  u  The  Being  who  fashioned  us,  and 
created  this  marvellous  road  for  us  to  travel 
in,  must  be  wondrously  wise  and  loving.  How 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  PILGRIMAGE.         11 

gradually  and  gently  all  things  grow,  and  pass 
through  magical  changes.  When  we  had  had 
enough  of  chasing  butterflies,  the  roses  came  to 
bind  us  together  in  fragrant  wreaths.  When  the 
roses  withered,  the  grain-fields  waved  beautifully  in 
the  wind,  and  purple  and  yellow  grapes  hung  from 
the  vines,  like  great  clusters  of  jewels.  And  now, 
when,  fruit  and  grain  are  gathei'ed,  the  forests  are 
gorgeous  in  the  sunlight,  like  immense  beds  of 
tulips.  A  friendly  '  Good  morning  '  to  something 
new,  mingles  ever  with  the  '  Good  night,  beloved,' 
to  something  that  is  passing  away.  Surely,  dear- 
est, this  road,  so  full  of  magical  transformations, 
must  lead  us  to  something  more  beautiful  than 
itself."  The  traveller  uncovered  his  head,  raised 
his  eyes  reverently  toward  heaven,  and  said  :  "  It 
is  a  great  mystery.  O  Father,  give  us  faith !  " 
Before  the  glowing  tints  departed  from  the  trees, 
Mary's  cheek  grew  pale,  and  the  light  of  her  eyes 
began  to  fade.  Then  the  traveller  shuddered  and 
shivered  ;  for  a  great  shadow  came  between  him 
and  the  sunshine  ;  he  felt  the  approach  of  the  in- 
visible. More  and  more  closely  he  pressed  the 
beloved  companion,  to  warm  her  with  his  heart. 
But  her  mild  eyes  closed,  and  the  graceful  form 
became  as  marble.  No  more  could  he  look  into 
those  serene  depths,  where  he  had  first  seen  the 
blind  boy  shooting  his  arrows,  afterward  stringing 
pearls,  and  then  as  an  angel  twining  amaranthine 
crowns.  In  the  anguish  of  his  desolation,  he 


78         THE  MYSTERIOUS  PILGRIMAGE. 

groaned  aloud,  and  exclaimed :  "  O  thou  Dread 
Destroyer !  take  me,  too  !  I  cannot  live  alone ! 
I  cannot ! "  A  gentle  voice  whispered,  "  Thou 
art  not  alone,  dearest.  I  am  still  with  thee  !  "  but 
in  the  tumult  of  his  grief  he  heard  it  not.  The 
children  Mary  had  given  him  twined  their  soft 

v  ~ 

arms  about  his  neck,  and  said  :  "  Do  not  leave  us 
alone  !  We  cannot  find  our  way,  without  thee  to 
guide  us."  For  their  sakes,  he  stifled  his  groans, 
and  knelt  down  and  prayed,  "  O  Father,  give  me 
strength  and  faith  !  " 

Patiently  he  travelled  on,  leading  the  children. 
By  degrees  they  joined  themselves  to  companions, 
and  went  off  in  pairs  into  new  paths,  as  he  and  his 
Mary  had  done.  The  scenery  around  him  grew 
more  dreary.  The  black  branches  of  the  trees 
stood  in  gloomy  relief  against  a  cold  gray  sky. 
The  beautiful  fields  of  grain  ripening  in  the  sun- 
shine had  changed  to  dry  stubble  fluttering  mourn- 
fully in  the  wind.  But  Nature,  loath  to  part  with 
Beauty,  still  wore  a  few  red  berries,  as  a  necklace 
among  her  rags,  and  trimmed  her  scanty  garments 
with  evergreen.  But  the  wonderful  transforma- 
tions had  not  ceased.  The  fluttering  brown  rags 
suddenly  changed  to  the  softest  ermine  robe,  flash- 
ing with  diamonds,  and  surmounted  by  a  resplen- 
dent silver  crown.  The  magical  change  reminded 
our  traveller  that  his  lost  companion  had  said, 
"  Surely  a  road  so  full  of  beautiful  changes  must 
lead  to  something  more  beautiful  than  itself." 
Again  he  knelt  in  reverence,  and  said,  "  All 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  PILGRIMAGE.         79 
things   around    me    are   miraculous.      O  Father, 

O  ' 

give  me  faith  !  " 

The  road  descended  into  a  deep  valley,  ever 
more  narrow  and  dark.  The  nights  grew  longer. 
The  ground  was  rugged  and  frozen,  and  the  rough 
places  hurt  the  pilgrim's  stiff  and  weary  feet.  But 
when  he  was  joined  by  pilgrims  more  exhausted 
than  himself,  he  spoke  to  them  in  words  of  good 
cheer,  and  tried  to  help  them  over  the  rough 
places.  The  sunshine  was  no  longer  warm  and 
golden,  hut  its  silvery  light  was  still  beautiful,  and 
through  the  leafless  boughs  of  the  trees  the  moon 
and  the  stars  looked  down  serenely  on  him.  The 
children  whom  he  had  guided  sometimes  came  and 
sang  sweetly  to  him  ;  and  sometimes,  when  he  was 
listening  in  the  stillness,  he  seemed  to  hear  myste- 
rious echoes  within  himself,  as  if  from  a  musical 
chime  of  bells  on  the  other  side  of  a  river. 

The  shudderino-s  and  shiverino-s  he  had  felt  in 

o  o 

presence  of  the  cold  shadow  became  more  frequent ; 
and  he  said  to  himself,  "  The  Dread  Destroyer  is 
approaching  more  and  more  near."  With  trem- 
bling hands  he  uncovered  his  snow-white  head, 
and  looking  upward,  he  said,  "  It  is  a  fearful 
mystery.  O  Father,  give  me  faith  !  "  Praying 
thus,  he  sank  on  the  cold  ground,  and  sleepiness 
came  over  him.  He  felt  something  gently  raising 
him,  and  slowly  opening  his  eyes,  he  said,  "  Who 
art  thou  ?  "  The  stranger  answered,  "  I  am  that 
Dread  Destroyer,  whose  shadow  always  made  thee 
shudder." 


80          THE  MYSTERIOUS  PILGRIMAGE. 

"  Thou !  "  exclaimed  the  tired  pilgrim,  in  tones 
of  joyful1  surprise ;  u  why  tliou  art  an  angel !  " 
"  Yes,  I  am  an  angel,"  he  replied  ;  "  and  none 
but  I  can  lead  thee  to  thy  loved  ones.  Thy 
Heavenly  Father  has  sent  me  to  take  thee  home." 
Gratefully  the  weary  one  sank  into  the  arms  of 
the  giant  he  had  so  much  dreaded.  "  All  things 
are  ordered  in  love,"  he  said.  "  Thy  touch  is 
friendly,  and  thy  voice  like  music." 

They  passed  a  narrow  bridge  over  a  dark  river. 
On  the  other  side  was  a  flowery  arch,  bearing  the 
motto,  "The  Gate  of  Life."  Within  it  stood 
Mary  and  her  cherub-boy,  shining  in  transfigured 
lio-ht.  The  child  stretched  out  his  hands  for  an 

C5 

embrace,  and  Mary's  welcoming  smile  was  more 
beautiful  than  it  had  ever  been  in  the  happy  old 
time  of  roses  and  rainbows.  "  This  is  only  one 
more  of  the  magical  transformations,  my  beloved," 
she  said.  "  It  is  as  I  told  thee.  The  beautiful, 
mysterious  road  leads  to  something  far  more  beau- 
tiful than  itself.  Come  and  see  !  "  With  tender 
joy  he  kissed  her  and  the  angel  child.  There  was 
a  sound  of  harps  and  voices  above  him,  singing, 
"  The  shadow  has  departed  !  "  And  a  cheerful  re- 
sponse came  from  well-remembered  voices  he  had 
left  behind  him  on  the  road :  "  We  are  coming  ! 
We  are  coming ! "  Through  all  the  chambers 
of  his  soul  went  ringing  the  triumphant  chorus, 
u  The  shadow  has  departed !  "  with  the  cheerful 
response,  "  We  are  coming  !  We  are  coming !  " 


THE    HAPPIEST    TIME 


BY  ELIZA    COOK. 


AN  old  man  sat  in  his  chimney-seat, 
As  the  morning  sunbeam  crept  to  his  feet ; 
And  he  watched  the  Spring  light  as  it  came 
With  wider  ray  on  his  window  frame. 
He  looked  right  on  to  the  Eastern  sky, 
But  his  breath  grew  long  in  a  trembling  sigh, 
And  those  who  heard  it  wondered  much 
What  Spirit  hand  made  him  feel  its  touch. 

For  the  old  man  was  not  one  of  the  fair 

And  sensitive  plants  in  earth's  parterre ; 

His  heart  was  among  the  senseless  things, 

That  rarely  are  fanned  by  the  honey-bee's  wings ; 

It  bore  no  film  of  delicate  pride, 

No  dew  of  emotion  gathered  inside ; 

O,  that  old  man's  heart  was  of  hardy  kind, 

That  seemeth  to  heed  not  the  sun  or  the  wind. 

He  had  lived  in  the  world  as  millions  live, 
Ever  more  ready  to  take  than  give ; 

4*  F 


82  THE  HAPPIEST  TIME. 

He  had  worked  and  wedded,  and  murmured  and  blamed, 
And  just  paid  to  the  fraction  what  honesty  claimed ; 
He  had  driven  his  bargains  and  counted  his  gold, 
Till  upwards  of  threescore  years  were  told  ; 
And  his  keen  blue  eye  held  nothing  to  show 
That  feeling  had  ever  been  busy  below. 

The  old  man  sighed  again,  and  hid 

His  keen  blue  eye  beneath  its  lid  ; 

And  his  wrinkled  forehead,  bending  down, 

"Was  knitting  itself  in  a  painful  frown. 

"  I  've  been  looking  back,"  the  old  man  said, 

On  every  spot  where  my  path  has  laid, 

Over  every  year  my  brain  can  trace, 

To  find  the  happiest  time  and  place." 

'•  And  where  and  when,"  cried  one  by  his  side, 
'*  Have  you  found  the  brightest  wave  in  your  tide  ? 
Come  tell  me  freely,  and  let  me  learn, 
How  the  spark  was  struck  that  yet  can  burn. 
Was  it  when  you  stood  in  stalwart  strength, 
With  the  blood  of  youth,  and  felt  that  at  length 
Your  stout  right  arm  could  win  its  bread  ?  " 
The  old  man  quietly  shook  his  head. 

"  Then  it  must  have  been  when  love  had  come, 
With  a  faithful  bride  to  glad  your  home ; 
Or  when  the  first-born  cooed  and  smiled, 
And  your  bosom  cradled  its  own  sweet  child ; 
Or  was  it  when  that  first-born  joy, 
Grew  up  to  your  hope,  —  a  brave,  strong  boy,  — 
And  promised  to  fill  the  world  in  your  stead  ?  " 
The  old  man  quietly  shook  his  head. 


THE  HAPPIEST  TIME.  83 

"  Say,  was  it  then  when  fortune  brought 
The  round  sum  you  had  frugally  sought  ? 
Was  the  year  the  happiest  that  beheld 
The  vision  of  poverty  all  dispelled  ? 
Or  was  it  when  you  still  had  more, 
And  found  you  could  boast  a  goodly  store 
With  labor  finished  and  plenty  spread  ?  " 
The  old  man  quietly  shook  his  head. 

"  Ah,  no !  ah,  no !  it  was  longer  ago," 

The  old  man  muttered,  —  sadly  and  low ! 

"  It  was  when  I  took  my  lonely  way 

To  the  lonely  woods  in  the  month  of  May. 

When  the  Spring  light  fell  as  it  falleth  now, 

With  the  bloom  on  the  sod  and  the  leaf  on  the  bough ; 

When  I  tossed  up  my  cap  at  the  nest  in  the  tree  ; 

0,  that  was  the  happiest  time  for  me. 

"  When  I  used  to  leap  and  laugh  and  shout, 
Though  I  never  knew  what  my  joy  was  about ; 
And  something  seemed  to  warm  my  breast, 
As  I  sat  on  a  mossy  bank  to  rest. 
That  was  the  time  ;  when  I  used  to  roll 
On  the  blue-bells  that  covered  the  upland  knoll, 
And  I  never  could  tell  why  the  thought  should  be, 
But  I  fancied  the  flowers  talked  to  me. 

"  Well  I  remember  climbing  to  reach 

A  squirrel  brood  rocked  on  the  top  of  a  beech ; 

Well  I  remember  the  lilies  so  sweet, 

That  I  toiled  with  back  to  the  city  street ; 

Yes,  tliat  was  the  time,  —  the  happiest  time,  — 

When  I  went  to  the  woods  in  their  May-day  prime." 


84  THE  HAPPIEST  TIME. 

And  the  old  man  breathed  with  a  longer  sigh, 
And  the  lid  fell  closer  over  his  eye. 

O,  who  would  have  thought  this  hard  old  man 
Had  room  in  his  heart  for  such  rainbow  span  ? 
Who  would  have  deemed  that  wild  copse  flowers 
Were  tenderly  haunting  his  latest  hours  ? 
But  what  did  the  old  man's  spirit  tell, 
In  confessing  it  loved  the  woods  so  well  ? 
What  do  we  learn  from  the  old  man's  sigh, 
But  that  Nature  and  Poetry  cannot  die  ? 


ODE     OF     ANACREON. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GREEK. 

THE  women  tell  me,  every  day, 
That  all  my  bloom  has  passed  away. 
"  Behold  !  "  the  lively  lasses  cry, 
Behold  this  mirror  with  a  sigh  ! 
Old  wintry  Time  has  shed  his  snows, 
And  bald  and  bare  your  forehead  shows; 
I  will  not  either  think  or  care 
Whether  old  Time  has  thinned  my  hair ; 
But  this  I  know  and  this  I  feel, 
As  years  advancing  on  me  steal, 
And  ever  bring  the  end  more  near, 
The  joys  of  life  become  more  dear ; 
And  had  I  but  one  hour  to  live, 
That  hour  to  cheerfulness  I  'd  erive. 


CICERO'S  ESSAY   ON   OLD   AGE. 


THE  following  extracts  are  from  a  discourse  "  De  Senectute," 
by  Cicero,  the  world-renowned  Roman  orator,  who  was  born  one 
hundred  and  six  years  before  Christ.  -  He  is  one  among  many 
pleasant  proofs  that  God  never  leaves  himself  without  a  witness  in 
the  hearts  of  men,  in  any  age  or  country.  Cicero  says  :  "  I  have 
represented  these  reflections  as  delivered  by  the  venerable  Cato  ; 
but  in  delivering  his  sentiments,  I  desire  to  be  understood  as  fully 
declaring  my  own." 

HOSE  who  have  no  internal  resources 
'  of  happiness  will  find  themselves  un- 
easy  in  every  stage  of  human  life;  but 
£  to  him  who  is  accustomed  to  derive 
happiness  from  within  himself,  no  state  will  appear 
as  a  real  evil  into  which  he  is  conducted  by  the 
common  and  regular  course  of  Nature ;  and  this 
is  peculiarly  the  case  with  respect  to  old  age.  I 
follow  Nature,  as  the  surest  guide,  and  resign 
myself  with  implicit  obedience  to  her  sacred  ordi- 
nances. After  having  wisely  distributed  peculiar 
and  proper  enjoyments  to  all  the  preceding  periods 
of  life,  it  cannot  be  supposed  that  she  would  neg- 


86  ESSAY  ON  OLD  AGE. 

lect  the  last,  and  leave  it  destitute  of  suitable 
advantages.  After  a  certain  point  of  maturity 
is  attained,  marks  of  decay  must  necessarily  ap- 
pear ;  but  to  this  unavoidable  condition  of  his 
present  being  every  wise  and  good  man  will  sub- 
mit with  contented  and  cheerful  acquiescence. 

Nothing  can  be  more  void  of  foundation  than 
the  assertion  that  old  age  necessarily  disquali- 
fies a  man  for  taking  part  in  the  great  affairs  of 
the  world.  If  an  old  man  cannot  perform  in  busi- 
ness a  part  which  requires  the  bodily  strength  and 
energy  of  more  vigorous  years,  he  can  act  in  a 
nobler  and  more  important  character.  Moment- 
ous affairs  of  state  are  not  conducted  by  corporeal 
strength  and  activity ;  they  require  cool  delibera- 
tion, prudent  counsel,  and  authoritative  influence ; 
qualifications  which  are  strengthened  and  improved 
by  increase  of  years.  Few  among  mankind  arrive 
at  old  age ;  and  this  suggests  a  reason  why  the 
affairs  of  the  world  are  not  better  conducted ;  for 
age  brings  experience,  discretion,  and  judgment, 
without  which  no  well-formed  government  could 
have  been  established,  or  can  be  maintained.  Ap- 
pius  Claudius  was  not  only  old  but  blind,  when  he 
remonstrated  in  the  Senate,  with  so  much  force 
and  spirit,  against  concluding  a  peace  with  Pyr- 
rhus.  The  celebrated  General  Quintus  Maximus 
led  our  troops  to  battle  in  his  old  age,  with  as 
much  spirit  as  if  he  had  been  in  the  prime  and 
vigor  of  life.  It  was  by  his  advice  and  eloquence, 


ESSAY  ON  OLD  AGE.  87 

when  he  was  extremely  old,  that  the  Cincian  law 
concerning  donatives  was  enacted.  And  it  was 
not  merely  in  the  conspicuous  paths  of  the  world 
that  this  excellent  man  was  truly  great.  He  ap- 
peai'ed  still  greater  in  the  private  and  domestic 
scenes  of  life.  There  was  a  dignity  in  his  deport- 
ment, tempered  with  singular  politeness  and  affa- 
bility ;  and  time  wrought  no  alteration  in  his 
amiable  qualities.  How  pleasing  and  instructive 
was  his  conversation  !  How  profound  his  knowl- 
edge of  antiquity  and  the  laws  !  His  memory  was 
so  retentive,  that  there  was  no  event  of  any  note, 
connected  with  our  public  affairs,  with  which  he 
was  not  well  acquainted.  I  eagerly  embraced 
every  opportunity  to  enjoy  his  society,  feeling  that 
after  his  death  I  should  never  again  meet  with  so 
wise  and  improving  a  companion. 

But  it  is  not  necessary  to  be  a  hero  or  a  states- 
man, in  order  to  lead  an  easy  and  agreeable  old 
age.  That  season  of  life  may  prove  equally  serene 
and  pleasant  to  him  who  has  passed  his  days  in  the 
retired  paths  of  learning.  It  is  urged  that  old  age 
impairs  the  memory.  It  may  have  that  effect  on 
those  in  whom  memory  was  originally  infirm,  or 
who  have  not  preserved  its  native  vigor  by  exer- 
cising it  properly.  But  the  faculties  of  the  mind 
will  preserve  their  power  in  old  age,  unless  they 
are  suffered  to  become  languid  for  want  of  due 
cultivation.  Caius  Gallus  employed  himself  to  the 
very  last  moments  of  his  long  life  in  measuring  the 


88  ESSAY  ON  OLD  AGE. 

distances  of  the  heavenly  orbs,  and  determining 
the  dimensions  of  this  our  earth.  How  often  has 
the  sun  risen  on  his  astronomical  calculations ! 
How  frequently  has  night  overtaken  him  in  the 
same  elevated  studies !  With  what  delight  did 

c5 

he  amuse  himself  in  predicting  to  us,  long  before 
they  happened,  the  several  lunar  and  solar  eclipses  ! 
Other  ingenious  applications  of  the  mind  there 
are,  though  of  a  lighter  nature,  which  may  greatly 
contribute  to  enliven  and  amuse  the  decline  of  life. 
Thus  Nocvius,  in  composing  his  poem  on  the  Car- 
thaginian war,  and  Plautus  in  writing  his  two  last 
comedies,  filled  up  the  leisure  of  their  latter  days 
with  wonderful  complacency  and  satisfaction.  I 
can  affirm  the  same  of  our  dramatic  poet  Livius, 
whom  I  remember  to  have  seen  in  his  old  age  ; 

O       * 

and  let  me  not  forget  Marcus  Cethegus,  justly 
styled  the  soul  of  eloquence,  whom  I  likewise  saw 
in  his  old  age  exercising  even  his  oratorical  talents 
with  uncommon  force  and  vivacity.  All  these  old 
men  I  saw  pursuing  their  respective  studies  with 
the  utmost  ardor  and  alacrity.  Solon,  in  one  of 
his  poems,  written  when  he  was  advanced  in 
years,  glories  that  he  learned  something  every 
day  he  lived.  Plato  occupied  himself  with  philo- 
sophical studies,  till  they  were  interrupted  by 
death  at  eighty-one  years  of  age.  Isocrates  com- 
posed his  famous  discourse  when  he  was  ninety- 
four  years  old,  and  he  lived  five  years  afterward. 
Sophocles  continued  to  write  tragedies  when  he 


ESSAY  ON  OLD  AGE.  89 

was  extremely  old.  Gray  hair  proved  no  obstacle 
to  the  philosophic  pursuits  of  Pythagoras,  Zeno, 
Cleanthes,  or  the  venerable  Diogenes.  These 
eminent  persons  persevered  in  their  studies  with 
undiminished  earnestness  to  the  last  moment  of 
their  extended  lives.  Leontinus  Gorgias,  who 
lived  to  be  one  hundred  and  seven  years  old,  pur- 
sued his  studies  with  unremitting  assiduity  to  the 
last.  When  asked  if  he  did  not  wish  to  rid  him- 
self of  the  burden  of  such  prolonged  years,  he 
replied,  "  I  find  no  reason  to  complain  of  old  age." 
The  statement  that  age  impairs  our  strength  is 
not  without  foundation.  But,  after  all,  imbecility 
of  body  is  more  frequently  caused  by  youthful 
irregularities  than  by  the  natui'al  and  unavoidable 
consequences  of  long  life.  By  temperance  and 
exercise,  a  man  may  secure  to  his  old  age  no 
inconsiderable  degree  of  his  former  spirit  and 
activity.  The  venerable  Lucius  Metellus  pre- 
served such  a  florid  old  age  to  his  last  moments, 
as  to  have  no  reason  to  lament  the  depredations  of 
time.  If  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  time  in- 
evitably undermines  physical  strength,  it  is  equally 
true  that  great  bodily  vigor  is  not  required  in  the 
decline  of  life.  A  moderate  degree  of  force  is 
sufficient  for  all  rational  purposes.  I  no  more 
regret  the  absence  of  youthful  vigor,  than  when 
young  I  lamented  because  I  was  not  endowed  with 
the  strength  of  a  bull  or  an  elephant.  Old  age 
has,  at  least,  sufficient  strength  remaining  to  train 


90  ESSAY  ON  OLD  AGE. 

the  rising  generation,  and  instruct  them  in  the 
duties  to  which  they  may  hereafter  be  called  ;  and 
certainly  there  cannot  be  a  more  important  or  a 
more  honorable  occupation.  There  is  satisfaction 
in  communicating  every  kind  of  useful  knowledge  ; 
and  it  must  render  a  man  happy  to  employ  the 
faculties  of  his  mind  to  so  noble  and  beneficial  a 
purpose,  how  much  soever  time  may  have  impaired 
his  bodily  powers.  Men  of  good  sense,  in  the 
evening  of  life,  are  generally  fond  of  associating 
with  the  younger  part  of  the  world,  and,  when 
they  discover  amiable  qualities  in  them,  they  find 
it  an  alleviation  of  their  infirmities  to  gain  their 
affection  and  esteem  ;  and  well-inclined  young 
men  think  themselves  equally  happy  to  be  guided 
into  the  paths  of  knowledge  and  virtue  by  the  in- 
structions of  experienced  elders.  I  love  to  see  the 
fire  of  youth  somewhat  tempered  by  the  sobriety 
of  age,  and  it  is  also  pleasant  to  see  the  gravity  of 
age  enlivened  by  the  vivacity  of  youth.  Whoever 
combines  these  two  qualities  in  his  character  will 
never  exhibit  traces  of  senility  in  his  mind,  though 
his  body  may  bear  the  marks  of  years. 

As  for  the  natural  and  necessary  inconveniences 
attendant  upon  length  of  years,  we  ought  to  coun- 
teract their  progress  by  constant  and  resolute 
opposition.  The  infirmities  of  age  should  be  re- 
sisted like  the  approaches  of  disease.  To  this  end 
we  should  use  regular  and  moderate  exercise,  and 
merely  eat  and  drink  as  much  as  is  necessary  to 


ESSAY  ON  OLD  AGE.  91 

repair  our  strength,  without  oppressing  the  organs 
of  digestion .  And  the  intellectual  faculties,  as 

O  * 

well  as  the  physical,  should  be  carefully  assisted. 
Mind  and  body  thrive  equally  by  suitable  exercise 
of  their  powers  ;  with  this  difference,  however, 
that  bodily  exertion  ends  in  fatigue,  whereas  the 
mind  is  never  wearied  by  its  activity. 

Another  charge  against  old  age  is  that  it  de- 
prives us  of  sensual  gratifications.  Happy  effect, 
indeed,  to  be  delivered  from  those  snares  which 
allure  youth  into  some  of  the  worst  vices  !  "  Rea- 
son, "  said  Archytas,  "  is  the  'noblest  gift  which 
God  or  Nature  has  bestowed  on  men.  Now 
nothing  is  so  great  an  enemy  to  that  divine  en- 
dowment as  the  pleasures  of  sense  ;  for  neither 
temperance,  nor  any  of  the  more  exalted  virtues, 
can  find  a  place  in  that  breast  which  is  under  the 
dominion  of  voluptuous  passions.  Imagine  to 
yourself  a  man  in  the  actual  enjoyment  of  the 
highest  gratifications  mere  animal  nature  is  capable 
of  receiving  ;  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  during 
his  continuance  in  that  state  it  would  be  utterly 
impossible  for  him  to  exert  any  one  power  of  his 
rational  faculties."  The  inference  I  draw  from 
this  is,  that  if  the  principles  of  reason  and  virtue 
have  not  proved  sufficient  to  inspire  us  with 
proper  contempt  for  mere  sensual  pleasures,  we 
have  cause  to  feel  grateful  to  old  age  for  at  least 
weaning  us  from  appetites  it  would  ill  become  us 
to  gratify  ;  for  voluptuous  passions  are  utter  en- 


92  ESSAY  ON  OLD  AGE. 

emies  to  all  the  nobler  faculties  of  the  soul ;  they 
hold  no  communion  with  the  manly  virtues  ;  and 
they  cast  a  mist  before  the  eye  of  reason.  The 
little  relish  which  old  age  leaves  us  for  enjoy- 
ments merely  sensual,  instead  of  being  a  disparage- 
ment to  that  period  of  life,  considerably  enhances 
its  value.  If  age  renders  us  incapable  of  taking 
an  equal  share  in  the  flowing  cups  and  luxurious 
dishes  of  wealthy  tables,  it  thereby  secures  us 
from  painful  indigestion,  restless  nights,  and  dis- 
ordered reason. 

But  though  his  years  will  guard  an  old  man 
from  excess,  they  by  no  means  exclude  him  from 
enjoying  convivial  gratifications  in  a  moderate 
degree.  I  always  took  singular  satisfaction  in  the 
anniversaries  of  those  little  societies  called  Con- 
fraternities. But  the  gratification  I  received  from 
their  entertainments  arose  much  less  from  the 
pleasures  of  the  palate  than  from  the  opportuni- 
ties they  afforded  for  enjoying  the  company  and 
conversation  of  friends.  I  derive  so  much  pluas- 
iire  from  hours  devoted  to  cheerful  discourse,  that 
I  love  to  prolong  my  meals,  not  only  when  the 
company  is  composed  of  men  of  mv  own  years, 
few  of  whom  indeed  are  now  remaining;,  but  also 

O' 

when  it  chiefly  consists  of  young  persons.  And  I 
acknowledge  my  obligations  to  old  age  for  having 
increased  my  passion  for  the  pleasures  of  conver- 
sation, while  it  has  abated  it  for  those  which 
depend  solely  on  the  palate  ;  though  I  do  not  find 


ESSAY  OX  OLD  AGE.  93 

myself  disqualified  for  that  species  of  gratification, 
also. 

The  advantages  of  age  are  inestimable,  if  we 
.consider  it  as  delivering  us  from  the  tyranny  of 
lust  and  ambition,  from  angry  and  contentious 
passions,  from  inordinate  and  irrational  desires  ;  in 
a  word,  as  teaching  us  to  retire  within  ourselves, 
and  look  for  happiness  in  our  own  souls.  If  to 
these  moral  benefits,  which  naturally  result  from 
length  of  davs,  be  added  the  sweet  food  of  the 

o  ~     7 

mind,  gathered  in  the  fields  of  science,  I  know  of 
no  season  of  life  that  is  passed  more  agreeably  than 
the  learned  leisure  of  a  virtuous  old  age.  Can 
the  luxuries  of  the  table,  or  the  amusements  of 
the  theatre,  supply  their  votaries  with  enjoyments 
worthy  to  be  compared  with  the  calm  delights  of 
intellectual  employments  ?  And,  in  minds  rightly 
formed  and  properly  cultivated,  these  exalted  de- 
lights never  fail  to  improve  and  gather  strength 
with  years. 

From  the  pleasures  which  attend  a  studious  old 
age,  let  us  turn  to  those  derived  from  rural  occupa- 
tions, of  which  I  am  a  warm  admirer.  Pleasures 
of  this  class  are  perfectly  consistent  with  every 
degree  of  advanced  years,  as  they  approach  more 
nearly  than  any  others  to  those  of  a  purely  philo- 
sophical kind.  They  are  derived  from  observing 
the  nature  and  properties  of  our  earth,  which  yields 
ready  obedience  to  the  cultivator's  industry,  and 
returns,  with  interest,  whatever  he  places  in  her 


94  ESSAY  ON  OLD  AGE. 

charge.  But  the  profit  arising  from  this  fertility  is 
by  no  means  the  most  desirable  circumstance  of  the 
farmer's  labors.  I  am  principally  delighted  with 
observing  the  powers  of  Nature,  and  tracing  her 
processes  in  vegetable  productions.  How  wonder- 
ful it  is  that  each  species  is  endowed  with  power  to 
continue  itself;  and  that  minute  seeds  should  de- 
velop so  amazingly  into  large  trunks  and  branches  ! 
The  orchard,  the  vegetable  garden,  and  the  par- 
terre diversify  the  pleasures  cf  farming  ;  not  to 
mention  the  feeding  of  cattle  and  the  rearing  of 
bees.  .  Among  my  friends  and  neighbors  in  the 
country  are  several  men  far  advanced  in  life,  who 
employ  themselves  with  so  much  activity  and  in- 
dustry in  agricultural  business,  that  nothing  impor- 
tant is  carried  on  without  their  supervision.  And 
these  rural  veterans  do  not  confine  their  energies 
to  those  sorts  of  crops  which  are  sown  and  reaped 
in  one  year.  They  occupy  themselves  in  branches 
of  husbandry  from  which  they  know  they  cannot 
live  to  derive  any  advantage.  If  asked  why  they 
thus  expend  their  labor,  they  might  well  reply  : 
"  We  do  it  in  obedience  to  the  immortal  gods.  By 
their  bountiful  providence  we  received  these  fields 
from  our  ancestors,  and  it  is  their  will  that  we 
should  transmit  them  to  posterity  with  improve- 
ments." In  my  opinion  there  is  no  happier  occu- 
pation than  agriculture  ;  not  only  on  account  of  its 
oreat  utilitv  to  mankind,  but  also  as  the  source 

O  */ 

of  peculiar  pleasures.     I  might   expatiate  on  the 


ESSAY  ON  OLD  AGE.  95 

beauties  of  verdant  groves  and  meadows,  on  the 
charming  landscape  of  olive-trees  and  vineyards  ; 
but  to  say  all  in  one  word,  there  cannot  be  a 
more  pleasing,  or  a  more  profitable  scene  than  that 
of  a  well-cultivated  farm.  And  where  else  can 
a  man  in  the  last  stages  of  life  more  easily  find 
warm  sunshine,  or  a  good  fire  in  winter,  or  the 
pleasure  of  cooling  shades  and  refreshing  streams 
in  summer  ? 

It  is  often  argued  that  old  age  must  necessarily 
be  a  state  of  much  anxiety  and  disquietude,  on 
account  of  the  near  approach  of  death.  That  the 
hour  of  dissolution  cannot  be  far  distant  from  an 
aged  man  is  undoubtedly  true.  But  every  event 
that  is  agreeable  to  the  course  of  nature  ought  to 
be  regarded  as  a  real  good ;  and  surely  nothing 
can  be  more  natural  than  for  the  old  to  die.  It  is 
true  that  youth  also  is  exposed  to  dissolution  ;  but 
it  is  a  dissolution  obviously  contrary  to  Nature's 
intentions,  and  in  opposition  to  her  strongest 
efforts.  Fruit,  before  it  is  ripe,  cannot  be  sepa- 
rated from  the  stalk  without  some  degree  of  force  ; 
but  when  it  is  perfectly  mature,  it  drops  of  itself: 
so  the  disunion  of  the  soul  and  body  is  effected  in 
the  young  by  violence,  but  in  the  old  it  takes  place 
by  mere  fulness  and  completion  of  years.  This 
ripeness  for  death  I  perceive  in  myself  with  much 
satisfaction  ;  and  I  look  forward  to  my  dissolution 
as  to  a  secure  haven,  where  I  shall  at  length  find 
a  happy  repose  from  the  fatigues  of  a  long  voyage. 


96  ESSAY  ON  OLD  AGE. 

With  regard  to  the  consequences  of  our  final 
dissolution,  I  will  venture  to  say  that  the  nearer 
death  approaches  the  more  clearly  do  I  seem  to 
discern  irs  real  nature.  When  I  consider  the 
faculties  with  which  the  human  mind  is  endowed, 
its  amazing  celerity,  its  wonderful  power  in  recol- 
lecting past  events,  and  its  sagacity  in  discerning 
the  future,  together  with  its  numberless  discover- 
ies in  arts  and  sciences,  I  feel  a  conscious  convic- 
tion that  this  active,  comprehensive  principle  can- 
not possibly  be  of  a  mortal  nature.  And  as  this 
unceasing  activity  of  the  soul  derives  its  energy 
from  its  own  intrinsic  and  essential  powers,  with- 
out receiving  it  from  any  foreign  or  external  im- 
pulse, it  necessarily  follows  that  its  activity  must 
continue  forever.  I  am  induced  to  embrace  this 
opinion,  not  only  as  agreeable  to  the  best  deduc- 
tions of  reason,  but  also  in  deference  to  the 
authority  of  the  noblest  and  most  distinguished 
philosophers. 

I  am  well  convinced  that  my  dear  departed 
friends  are  so  far  from  havino-  ceased  to  live,  that 

~  7 

the  state  they  now  enjoy  can  alone  with  propriety 
be  called  life.  I  feel  myself  transported  with  im- 
patience to  rejoin  those  whose  characters  I  have 
greatly  respected  and  whose  persons  I  have  loved. 
Nor  is  this  earnest  desire  confined  alone  to  those 
excellent  persons  with  whom  I  have  been  connect- 
ed. I  ardently  wish  also  to  visit  those  celebrated 
worthies  of  whom  I  have  heard  or  read  much.  To 


ESSAY  ON  OLD  AGE.  97 

this  glorious  assembly  I  am  speedily  advancing ; 
and  I  would  not  be  turned  back  on  my  journey, 
even    on    the    assured   condition    that   my   youth 
should  be  again  restored.      The  sincere  truth  is, 
if  some  divinity  would  confer  on  me  a  new  grant 
of  life,  I  would  reject  the  offer  without  the  least 
hesitation.      I   have   wellnigh    finished   the   race, 
and  have  no  disposition  to  return  to  the  starting- 
point.      I  do  not  mean  to  imitate  those  philoso- 
phers   who    represent    the    condition    of    human 
nature    as    a   subject    of  just   lamentation.      The 
satisfactions    of   this    life    are    many  ;    but    there 
comes    a    time    when    we    have    had    a   sufficient 
measure  of  its  enjoyments,  and  may  well  depart 
contented  with  our  share  of  the  feast.     I  am  far 
from    regretting   that   this    life   was   bestowed    on 
me  ;  and  I  have  the  satisfaction  of  thinking  that 
I   have  employed   it  in  such  a  manner  as  not  to 
have  lived  in  vain.     In  short,  I  consider  this 
world  as  a  place  which  Nature  never  in- 
tended  for   my   permanent    abode ; 
and    I    look   on   my   departure 
from  it,  not  as  being  driven 
from    my  habitation, 
but    simply   as 
leaving  an 
inn. 


THE    FOUNTAIN. 

BY  WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


WE  talked  with  open  heart,  and  tongue 
Affectionate  and  true, 
A  pair  of  friends,  though  I  was  young, 
And  Matthew  seventy-two. 

A  village  schoolmaster  was  he, 

With  hair  of  glittering  gray ; 
As  blithe  a  man  as  you  could  see 

On  a  spring  holiday. 

And  on  that  morning,  through  the  grass 

And  by  the  steaming  rills, 
We  travelled  merrily,  to  pass 

A  day  among  the  hills. 

We  lay  beneath  a  spreading  oak, 

Beside  a  mossy  seat ; 
And  from  the  turf  a  fountain  broke, 

And  gurgled  at  our  feet. 


THE  FOUNTAIN.  99 

"  Now,  Matthew,"  said  I,  "  let  us  match 

This  water's,  pleasant  tune 
With  some  old  Border-Song,  or  Catch, 

That  suite  a  summer's  noon. 

"  Or  of  the  church-clock  and  the  chimes 

Sing  here  beneath  the  shade, 
That  half-mad  thing  of  witty  rhymes 

Which  you  last  April  made." 

In  silence  Matthew  lay,  and  eyed 

The  spring  beneath  the  tree  ; 
And  thus  the  dear  old  man  replied, 

The  gray -haired  man  of  glee  : 

"  Down  to  the  vale  this  water  steers ; 

How  merrily  it  goes  ! 
'T  will  murmur  on  a  thousand  years, 

And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 

"  And  here,  on  this  delightful  day, 

I  cannot  choose  but  think 
How  oft,  a  vigorous  man,  I  lay 

Beside  this  fountain's  brink. 

';  My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears, 

My  heart  is  idly  stirred, 
For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears 

Which  in  those  days  I  heard. 

"  Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay ; 

And  yet  the  wiser  mind 
Mourns  less  for  what  age  takes  awav, 

Than  what  it  leaves  behind. 


100  THE  FOUNTAIN. 

"  The  blackbird  in  the  summer  trees, 

The  lark  upon  the  hill, 
Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please, 

Are  quiet  when  they  will. 

'"  With  Nature  never  do  they  wage 

A  foolish  strife  ;  they  see 
A  happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 

Is  beautiful  and  free. 

"  But  we  are  pressed  by  heavy  laws  ; 

And  often,  glad  no  more, 
We  wear  a  face  of  joy,  because 

We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

'•  If  there  is  one  who  need  bemoan 

His  kindred  laid  in  earth, 
The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own, 

It  is  the  man  of  mirth. 

"  My  days,  my  friend,  are  almost  gone  ; 

My  life  has  been  approved, 
And  many  love  me  ;  but  by  none 

Am  I  enough  beloved." 

"  Now  both  himself  and  me  he  wrongs, 
The  man  who  thus  complains  ! 

I  live  and  sing  my  idle  songs 
Upon  these  happy  plains  ; 

"  And,  Matthew,  for  thy  children  dead, 

I  '11  be  a  son  to  thee  ! " 
At  this,  he  grasped  my  hand,  and  said, 

"  Alas  !  that  cannot  be  ! " 


THE  FOUNTAIN.  1Q1 

We  rose  up  from  the  fountain-side  ; 

And  down  the  smooth  descent 
Of  the  green  sheep-track  did  we  glide, 

And  through  the  wood  we  went. 

i 

And  ere  we  came  to  Leonard's  Rock, 

He  sang  those  witty  rhymes 
About  the  crazy  old  church-clock, 

And  the  bewildered  chimes. 


A    POET'S   BLESSING. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

As  I  wandered  the  fields  along, 
Listening  to  the  lark's  sweet  song, 
I  saw  an  old  man  working  there, 
A  laborer  with  hoary  hair. 

"  Blessings  upon  this  field  !  "  I  said  ; 
"  Fruitful  by  faithful  labor  made. 
And  blessings  on  thy  wrinkled  hand, 
Thus  scattering  seed  along  the  land ! " 

He  answered  me,  with  earnest  face, 
"A  poet's  blessing  's  out  of  place  ; 
Likely  enough  that  Heaven,  in  scorn. 
Will  send  us  flowers  instead  of  corn." 

"  Nay,  friend,"  said  I,  "  my  tuneful  powers 
Wake  not  to  life  too  many  flowers  ; 
Only  enough  to  grace  the  land, 
And  fill  thy  little  grandson's  hand." 


BERNARD    PALISSY.* 


(  Call  him  not  old,  whose  visionary  brain 
Holds  o'er  the  past  its  undivided  reign. 
For  him  in  vain  the  envious  seasons  roll, 
Who  bears  eternal  summer  in  his  soul. 
If  yet  the  minstrel's  song,  the  poet's  lay, 
Spring  with  her  birds,  or  children  with  their  play, 
Or  maiden's  smile,  or  heavenly  dream  of  Art, 
Stir  the  few  life-drops  creeping  round  his  heart,  — 
Turn  to  the  record  where  his  years  are  told,  — 
Count  his  gray  hairs,  —  they  cannot  make  him  old  !  " 


,  ERNARD  PALISSY  was  born  in  one 
of  the  southwestern  districts  of  France, 
in  1509  ;  more  than  three  hundred  and 
fifty  years  ago,  and  more  than  a  cen- 
tury before  our  forefathers  landed  on  Plymouth 
Rock.  The  art  of  making  colored  glass,  and  of 
painting  on  glass,  had  been  for  centuries  in  great 
requisition,  for  the  windows  of  castles  and  cathe- 
drals. It  was  considered  an  occupation  so  honor- 
able, that  poor  nobles  sometimes  resorted  to  it  witk- 

*  These  facts  are  gleaned  from  Moiiey's  Life  of  Palissy  the 
Potter. 


BERNARD  PALISSY.  103 

out  losing  caste  ;  though  the  prejudices  concerning 
rank  were  at  that  time  very  strong.  The  manu- 
facture was  generally  carried  on  in  the  depths  of 
forests,  partly  for  the  convenience  of  gathering  fuel 
for  the  furnaces,  and  partly  to  avoid  the  danger 
of  fire  in  towns.  Around  these  manufactories  the 
workmen  erected  their  cabins,  and  night  and  day 
the  red  flames  of  the  furnaces  lighted  up  trees  and 
shrubbery  with  a  lurid  glow.  It  is  supposed  that 
Bernard  was  born  and  reared  in  one  of  these  ham- 
lets, secluded  from  the  world.  The  immense  for- 
ests furnished  a  vast  amount  of  chestnuts,  which 
constituted  the  principal  food  of  the  peasantry. 
Constant  labor  in  the  open  air,  combined  with  this 
extreme  simplicity  of  diet,  formed  healthy,  vigor- 
ous men,  free-hearted,  simple,  and  brave.  Whether 
Bernard's  father,  who  is  supposed  to  have  been  a 
modeller  of  glass,  was  a  decayed  gentleman,  or 
simply  a  peasant,  is  not  known.  Bernard,  by  some 
means,  learned  to  read  and  write,  which  was  not 
an  ordinary  accomplishment  at  that  period.  He 
also  had  a  great  talent  for  drawing,  which  he 
improved,  either  by  practice  or  instruction.  In 
other  respects  his  education  was  simply  that  of  the 
peasantry  around  him.  In  his  own  account  of 
his  earlv  days  he  says,  "  I  had  no  other  books  than 
heaven  and  earth,  which  are  open  to  all."  These 
volumes,  however,  he  studied  with  lively  interest 
and  the  closest  observation.  He  took  notice  of 
the  growth  of  plants  and  the  habits  of  animals. 

O  J- 


104  BERNARD  PALISS7. 

He  soon  began  to  paint  on  paper  the  likenesses  of 
birds,  lizards,  and  trees.  As  his  skill  increased,  he 
made  portraits  of  his  mother  and  the  neighbors, 
and  landscapes  containing  the  houses  they  lived 
in.  The  preparation  of  colors  for  glass  early 
awakened  an  interest  in  chemical  combinations  ; 
but  there  were  then  no  books  on  the  subject,  and 
he  could  only  increase  his  stock  of  knowledge  by 

•/  o  «/ 

repeated  experiments.  His  skill  in  drawing  en- 
abled him  to  produce  a  variety  of  new  patterns 
for  glass-work,  and  this,  combined  with  his  knowl- 
edge of  colors,  rendered  his  services  much  more 
important  than  those  of  a  common  workman.  But 
the  once  profitable  business  was  now  in  its  decline. 
People  began  to  find  out  that  the  exclusion  of 
sunshine  was  unwholesome,  and  that  the  obstruc- 
tion of  light  rendered  their  dwellings  gloomy. 
Moreover,  windows  in  those  days,  being  opened 
on  hinges,  were  much  more  exposed  to  be  shat- 
tered by  storms.  To  repair  stained  or  painted  glass 
was  an  expensive  process  ;  and  in  order  to  avoid 
the  frequent  necessity  of  it,  people  fastened  their 
windows  into  the  wall,  so  that  they  could  not  be 
opened.  This  excluded  air,  as  well  as  light  and 
sun-warmth  ;  and  gradually  colored  windows  fell 
into  disuse. 

Bernard's  father  was  poor,  and  the  profits  of  his 
business  were  too  scanty  to  yield  a  comfortable 
support  for  his  family.  Therefore,  the  young 
man,  when  he  was  eighteen  years  old,  strapped 


BERNARD  PALISSY.  105 

a  scantily  filled  wallet  upon  his  shoulders,  and 
marched  forth  into  the  world  to  seek  his  fortune. 
Francis  I.  and  Charles  V.  were  then  devastating 
half  Europe  by  their  Avars,  and  the  highways 
were  filled  with  military  adventurers  and  crip- 
pled soldiers.  From  these  the  young  traveller 

1.  •/  O 

obtained  his  first  glimpses  of  the  violence  and  in- 
trigues going  on  in  the  world  beyond  his  native 
forests. 

He  was  also  overtaken  by  a  travelling  cloth-mer- 
chant, who  told  him  of  many  new  things.  In 
order  to  dignify  his  own  calling,  he  enumerated 
many  great  men  who  had  been  employed  in  trade. 
Among  others,  he  mentioned  a  renowned  Athe- 
nian, called  "  the  divine  Plato,"  by  reason  of  the 
excellence  of  his  wisdom,  who  had  sold  olive-oil  in 
Egypt,  to  defray  the  expenses  of  travelling  there. 
"  I  never  heard  of  Plato,"  said  Bernard.  "  O, 
you  are  a  wild  bird  from  the  forest,"  replied 
the  trader  ;  "  you  can  only  pipe  as  you  have  been 
taught  by  nature.  But  I  advise  you  to  make 
acquaintance  with  books.  Our  King  Francis  is 
now  doing  so  much  to  encourage  the  arts  and 
sciences,  that  every  artisan  can  become  wise,  if 
he  makes  good  use  of  his  leisure.  Our  shops  may 
now  be  our  schools."  "  Then  I  should  wish  the 
whole  world  to  be  my  shop,"  rejoined  Bernard. 
"  I  feel  that  earth  and  air  are  full  of  mysteries  and 
wonders  ;  full  of  the  sublime  wisdom  of  God." 

So  he  wandered  on,  reading,  as  he  had  done 
5* 


106  BERNARD   PALISSY. 

from  childhood,  in  "  the  book  of  earth  and  heaven, 
which  is  open  to  all." 

"  For  Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 

The  child  upon  her  knee, 
Saying,  '  Here  is  a  story-book 
Thy  Father  has  written  for  thoe.' 

"  '  Come,  wander  with  me,'  she  said, 

'  Into  regions  yet  untrod  ; 
And  read  what  is  still  unread 
In  the  manuscripts  of  God.' 

"  And  he  wandered  away  and  away, 

With  Nature,  the  dear  old  nurse, 
Who  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  rhymes  of  the  universe." 

If  lizards  were  basking  in  the  sunshine,  he  stopped 
to  admire  their  gliding  motions,  and  prismatic 
changes  of  color.  If  he  found  a  half-covered  snail 
among  the  wet  mosses,  he  lingered  till  he  ascer- 
tained that  it  was  gradually  making  a  new  shell 
from  its  own  saliva.  If  a  stone  was  curious  in 
form  or  shape,  he  picked  it  up  and  put  it  in 
his  wallet  ;  and  oftentimes  he  would  crack  them, 
to  discover  their  interior  structure.  Every  new 

»/ 

flower  and  seed  attracted  his  attention,  and  excited 
wonder  at  the  marvellous  varieties  of  Nature. 
These  things  are  hinted  at  all  through  his  writings. 
He  says  :  "  In  walking  under  the  fruit-trees,  I 
received  a  great  contentment  and  many  joyous 
pleasures  :  for  I  saw  the  squirrels  gathering  the 
fruits,  and  leaping  from  branch  to  branch,  with 


BERNARD  PALISSY.  107 

many  pretty  looks  and  gestures.  I  saw  nuts  gath- 
ered by  the  rooks,  who  rejoiced  in  taking  their 
repast,  dining  on  the  said  nuts.  Under  the  apple- 
trees,  I  found  hedgehogs,  that  rolled  themselves 
into  a  round  form,  and,  thrusting  out  their  sharp 
quills,  they  rolled  over  the  apples,  which  stuck  on 
the  points,  and  so  they  went  burdened.  These 
things  have  made  me  such  a  lover  of  the  fields, 
that  it  seems  to  me  there  are  no  treasures  in  the 
world  so  precious  as  the  little  branches  of  trees  and 
plants.  I  hold  them  in  more  esteem  than  mines 
of  gold  and  silver."  This  loving  communion  with 
Nature  was  not  mere  idle  dreaming.  Always  he 
was  drawing  inferences  from  what  he  saw,  and 
curiously  inquiring  into  the  causes  of  things. 

He  supported  himself  by  painting  glass,  and 
sketching  portraits.  He  says,  in  his  modest  way, 
"  They  thought  me  a  better  painter  than  I  was." 
If  he  arrived  in  a  town  where  a  cathedral  or  an 
abbey  was  being  built,  he  sometimes  tarried  long  to 
make  a  variety  of  rich  patterns  for  the  windows. 
In  other  places,  he  would  find  only  a  few  repairs 
required  in  the  windows  of  castles  or  churches,  and 
so  Avould  quickly  pass  on.  To  arrange  mosaic  pat- 
terns of  different-colored  glass  required  constant 
use  of  rule  and  compass,  and  this  suggested  the 
study  of  geometry,  which  he  pursued  with  charac- 
teristic eagerness.  The  knowledge  thus  acquired 
made  him  a  skilful  surveyor,  and  he  was  much 
employed  in  mapping  out  boundaries,  and  making 


108  BERNARD  PALLSSY. 

plans  for  houses  and  gardens,  a  business  which  he 
found  more  profitable  than  glass-work  or  portraits. 
These  various  occupations  brought  him  occasion- 
ally into  contact  with  men  who  were  learned  in 
the  arts  and  sciences,  according  to  the  standard  of 
learning  at  that  time,  and  his  active  mind  never 
failed  to  glean  something  from  such  interviews.  A 
French  translation  of  the  Scriptures  had  been  pub- 
lished in  1498.  He  seems  to  have  had  a  copy 
with  him  during  his  travels,  and  to  have  studied 
it  with  reverential  attention.  Thus  constantly 
observing  and  acquiring,  the  young  man  trav- 
ersed France,  from  Spain  to  the  Netherlands,  and 
roamed  through  a  portion  of  Germany.  Ten  years 
were  spent  in  this  way,  during  which  he  obtained 
the  best  portion  of  that  education  which  he  after- 
ward turned  to  good  account. 

He  is  supposed  to  have  been  about  twenty-nine 
years  old,  when  he  married,  and  settled  in  the  town 
of  Salutes,  in  the  western  part  of  France.  He 
supported  his  family  by  glass-work,  portraits,  and 
surveying.  A  few  years  after  his  marriage,  some 
one  showed  him  an  enamelled  cup,  brought  from 
Italy.  It  seemed  a  slight  incident ;  but  it  woke 
the  artistic  spirit  slumbering  in  his  soul,  and  was 
destined  to  effect  a  complete  revolution  in  his  life. 
He  says  :  "  It  was  an  earthen  cup,  turned  and 
enamelled  with  so  much  beauty,  that  from  that 
time  I  entered  into  controversy  with  my  own 
thoughts.  I  began  to  think  that  if  I  should  dis- 


BERNARD  PALISSY.  109 

cover  how  to  make  enamels,  I  could  make  earthen 
vessels  very  pi'ettily  ;  because  God  had  gifted  me 
with  some  knowledge  of  drawing.  So,  regardless 
of  the  fact  that  I  had  no  knowledge  of  clays,  I 
began  to  seek  for  the  enamel,  as  a  man  gropes  in 
the  dark." 

In  order  to  begin  to  comprehend  the  difficulties 
he  had  to  encounter,  we  must  know  that  only  the 
rudest  kind  of  common  pottery  had  then  been 
made  in  France,  and  even  with  the  manufacture 
of  that  he  was  entirely  unacquainted.  If  he  had 
been  unmarried,  he  might  have  travelled  among 
the  potters  of  Europe,  as  he  had  among  the  glass- 
makers,  and  have  obtained  useful  hints  from  them  ; 
but  his  family  increased  fast,  and  needed  his  pro- 
tection and  support.  Tea  was  not  introduced  into 
Europe  till  a  hundred  years  later ;  and  there  were 
no  specimens  of  porcelain  from  China,  except  here 
and  there  a  costly  article  imported  by  the  rich. 
He  was  obliged  to  test  the  qualities  of  various 
kinds  of  clays  ;  what  chemical  agents  would  pro- 
duce enamel ;  what  other  agents  would  produce 
colors  ;  and  the  action  of  heat  on  all  of  them.  He 
bought  quantities  of  earthen  jars,  broke  them  into 
fragments,  applied  to  each  piece  some  particular 
chemical  substance,  and  tried  them  all  in  a  furnace. 
He  says  :  "  I  pounded  all  the  substances  I  could 
suppose  likely  to  make  anything.  Having  blun- 
dered several  times,  at  great  expense,  and  through 
much  labor,  I  was  every  day  pounding  and  grind- 


110  BERNARD  PALISSY. 

ing  new  materials,  and  constructing  new  furnaces, 
which  cost  much  money  and  consumed  my  wood 
and  my  time."  While  these  expenses  were  going 
on,  his  former  occupations  were  necessarily  sus- 
pended ;  thus  "  the  candle  was  burning  out  at 
both  ends."  His  wife  began  to  complain.  Still 
he  went  on,  trying  new  compounds,  as  he  says, 
"  always  with  great  cost,  loss  of  time,  confusion 
and  sorrow."  The  privations  of  his  family  and 
the  anxiety  of  his  wife  gave  him  so  much  pain, 
that  he  relinquished  his  experiments  for  a  while. 
He  says  :  "  Seeing  I  could  not  in  this  way  come 
at  my  intention,  I  occupied  myself  in  my  art  of 
painting  and  glass-working,  and  comported  myself 
as  if  I  were  not  zealous  to  dive  any  more  into  the 
secret  of  enamels."  The  king  ordered  extensive 
surveys,  and  he  found  that  employment  so  profita- 
ble, that  his  family  were  soon  at  ease  again.  But 
that  Italian  cup  was  always  in  his  mind.  He  says  : 
"  When  I  found  myself  with  a  little  money,  I  re- 
sumed my  affection  for  pursuing  in  the  track  of  the 
enamels."  For  two  years  he  kept  up  a  series  of 
experiments,  under  all  manner  of  difficulties,  and 
always  without  success.  His  wife  scolded,  and 
even  his  own  courage  began  to  fail.  At  last  he 
applied  more  than  three  hundred  kinds  of  mixtures 
to  more  than  three  hundred  fragments,  and  put 
them  all  in  the  furnace  ;  resolved  that  if  this  ex- 
periment proved  a  failure,  he  would  try  no  more. 
He  tells  us  :  "  One  of  the  pieces  came  out  white 


BERNARD  PALISSY.  HI 

and  polished,  in  a  way  that  caused  me  such  joy,  as 
made  me  think  I  was  become  a  new  creature." 
He  was  then  thirty-seven  years  old. 

He  was  merely  at  the  beginning  of  what  he 
aimed  to  accomplish.  He  had  discovered  how  to 
make  the  enamel,  but  he  still  knew  nothing  of 
pottery,  or  of  the  effect  which  various  degrees  of 
heat  would  produce  on  colors.  A  new  furnace 
was  necessary,  and  he  proceeded  to  build  it,  with 
prodigious  labor.  Being  too  poor  to  hire  help,  he 
brought  bricks  on  his  own  back  from  a  distant 
kiln ;  he  made  his  own  mortar,  and  drew  the  wa- 
ter with  which  it  was  tempered.  He  fashioned 
vessels  of  clay,  to  which  his  enamel  could  be  ap- 
plied. For  more  than  a  month  he  kept  up  an 
incessant  fire  night  and  day,  and  was  continually 
grinding  materials  in  a  hand-mill,  which  it  usually 
required  two  men  to  turn.  He  believed  himself 
to  be  very  near  complete  success,  and  everything 
depended  upon  not  letting  the  heat  of  the  furnaces 
go  down.  In  the  desperation  of  his  poverty  and 
the  excitement  of  his  sanguine  hopes,  he  burned 
the  garden-fence,  and  even  some  of  the  tables, 
doors,  and  floors  of  his  house.  His  wife  became 
frantic,  and  gave  him  no  peace.  She  was  to  be 
pitied,  poor  woman  !  Not  being  acquainted  with 
chemical  experiments,  she  did  not  know,  as  Tie  did, 
that  he  was  really  on  the  point  of  making  a  great 
and  lucrative  discovery.  She  had  heard  it  so  long 
that  she  did  n't  believe  it.  They  had  a  large  fam- 


112  BERNARD  PALISSY. 

ily  of  children,  and  while  their  father  was  trying 
expensive  experiments,  several  of  them  were  dying 
of  a  disease  prevalent  at  that  time.  It  was  a 
gloomy  and  trying  period  for  all  of  them.  He 
says :  "  I  suffered  an  anguish  that  I  cannot  speak. 
I  was  quite  exhausted  and  dried  up  by  the  heat  of 
the  furnace.  It  was  more  than  a  month  since  my 
shirt  had  been  dry  upon  me.  I  was  the  object  of 
mockery.  Even  those  from  whom  solace  was  due 
ran  crying  through  the  town  that  I  was  burning 
my  floors.  In  this  way  I  came  to  be  regarded  as 
a  madman.  I  was  in  debt  in  several  places.  I 
had  two  children  at  nurse,  and  was  unable  to  pay 
the  nurses.  Men  jested  at  me  as  I  passed  through 
the  streets,  and  said  it  was  right  for  me  to  die  of 
hunger,  since  I  had  left  following  my  trade.  Some 
hope  still  remained  to  sustain  me,  for  my  last 
experiments  had  turned  out  tolerably  well,  and 
I  thought  I  knew  enough  to  get  my  living ;  but  I 
found  I  was  far  enough  from  that  yet. 

The  want  of  means  to  build  sheds  to  cover  his 
clay  vessels  was  another  great  difficulty.  After 
working  all  day,  and  late  into  the  night,  sometimes 
a  heavy  rain  would  spoil  all  his  work,  just  as  he 
had  it  ready  to  bake.  He  describes  himself,  on 
such  occasions,  as  utterly  weak  and  exhausted,  so 
that  walking  home  he  "  reeled  like  a  man  drunk 
with  wine."  He  says :  "  Filled  with  a  great  sor- 
row, inasmuch  as  having  labored  long  I  saw  my 
labor  wasted,  I  would  retire  soiled  and  drenched, 


BERNARD  PALISSY.  H3 

to  find  in  my  chamber  a  second  persecution  worse 
than  the  first ;  which  now  causes  me  to  marvel 
that  I  was  not  consumed  by  suffering." 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  tribulation,,  the  strug- 
gling artist  had  one  source  of  consolation.  Jean 
Cauvin,  better  known  to  us  as  John  Calvin,  had 
been  preaching  Protestant  doctrines  in  France,  and 
had  given  rise  to  the  sect  called  Huguenots.  The 
extravagance  and  licentiousness  of  society  at  that 
period,  and  the  abuses  practised  by  a  powerful  and 
wealthy  priesthood,  naturally  inclined  this  pure 
and  simple-minded  man  to  the  doctrines  of  the 
Reformers.  He  became  acquainted  with  an  artisan 
of  the  same  turn  of  mind,  whom  he  describes  as 
"  simple,  unlearned,  and  marvellously  poor."  His 
delight  was  to  hear  Palissy  read  the  Scriptures. 
Gradually  his  listeners  increased  to  ten,  and  they 
formed  a  little  society,  which  took  turns  in  exhor- 
tation and  prayer.  One  of  them  is  supposed  to 
have  been  an  innkeeper,  who,  from  religious  sym- 
pathy, allowed  poor  Palissy  to  take  meals  at  his 
house  on  credit. 

He  still  continued  his  experiments,  and  met 
with  successive  disappointments  of  one  kind  or 
another.  At  last,  he  thought  he  had  learned 
how  to  adjust  everything  just  right ;  and  confi- 
dent of  success,  he  one  day  put  into  the  oven  a 
batch  of  vessels,  beautifully  formed  and  painted. 
But  a  new  misfortune  awaited  him.  The  mate- 
rials of  his  furnace  contained  flints.  These  ex- 


114  BERNARD  PALISSY. 

paneled  and  burst  with  the  great  heat,  and  struck 
into  the  vessels  while  they  were  soft,  injuring  the 
enamel,  and  covering  the  surface  with  irregular 
sharp  points.  This  blow  almost  prostrated  him; 
for  he  had  expected  this  beautiful  batch  would 
bring  a  considerable  sum  of  money  for  the  support 
of  his  family,  and  put  to  silence  those  that  jeered 
at  him.  But  he  was  a  man  of  wonderful  endur- 
ance. He  says :  "  Having  remained  some  time 
upon  the  bed,  I  reflected  that  if  a  man  should  fall 
into  a  pit,  it  would  be  his  duty  to  try  to  get  out 
again."  So  the  brave  soul  roused  himself,  and  set 
to  work  diligently  to  earn  money,  by  his  old  trades 
of  painting  and  surveying. 

Having  supplied  the  necessities  of  his  family,  he 
again  returned  to  his  pottery  ;  fully  believing  that 
his  losses  and  hazards  were  over,  and  that  he  could 
now  make  articles  that  would  bring  good  prices. 
But  new  disappointments  awaited  him.  The  green 
with  which  he  painted  his  lizards  burnt  before  the 
brown  of  the  serpents  melted  ;  a  strong  current  of 
air  in  the  furnace  blew  ashes  all  over  his  beautiful 
vessels  and  spoiled  the  enamel.  He  says  :  "  Be- 
fore I  could  render  my  different  enamels  fusible 
at  the  same  degree  of  heat,  I  thought  I  should  be 
at  the  door  of  my  sepulchre.  I  was  so  wasted  in 
my  person  that  there  was  no  form  nor  prominence 
in  the  muscles  of  my  arms  or  legs ;  also  the  said 
legs  were  throughout  of  one  size  ;  so  that  when  I 
walked,  garters  and  stockings  were  at  once  down 


BERNARD  PALISSY.  H5 

upon  my  heels.  I  often  roamed  about  the  fields, 
considering  my  miseries  and  weariness,  and  above 
all  things,  that  in  my  own  house  I  could  have  no 
peace,  nor  do  anything  that  was  considered  good. 
I  was  despised  and  mocked  by  all.  Nevertheless, 
I  had  a  hope,  which  caused  rne  to  work  so  like  a 
man,  that  I  often  did  mv  best  to  lau^h  and  amuse 

«/ 

people  who  came  to  see  me,  though  within  me  all 
was  very  sad." 

At  the  end  of  ten  years  from  the  commence- 
ment of  his  experiments,  he  succeeded  in  making 
a  kind  of  ware,  of  mixed  enamels,  resembling  jas- 
per. It  was  not  what  he  had  been  aiming  to 
accomplish,  but  it  was  considered  pretty,  and  sold 
well  enough  to  support  his  family  comfortably. 
While  he  was  making  continual  improvements  in 
his  pottery,  the  Huguenots  were  increasing  to  a 
degree  that  provoked  persecution.  A  schoolmas- 
ter in  a  neighboring  town,  who  "  preached  on 
Sundays,  and  was  much  beloved  by  the  people," 
was  brought  to  Saintes  and  publicly  burnt.  But 
Palissy  and  his  little  band  were  not  intimidat- 
ed. They  continued  to  meet  for  exhortation  and 
prayer.  At  first  it  was  done  mostly  at  midnight ; 
but  the  pure  and  pious  lives  of  these  men  and 
women  formed  such  a  contrast  to  the  licentious- 
ness and  blasphemy  prevailing  round  them,  that 
they  gradually  gained  respect ;  insomuch  that  they 
influenced  the  magistrates  of  the  town  to  pass 
laws  restraining  gambling  and  dissipation.  So 


116  BERNARD  PALISSY. 

great  a  change  was  produced,  that,  when  Palissy 
was  fifty-one  years  old,  he  says :  "  On  Sundays 
you  might  see  tradesmen  rambling  through  the 
fields,  groves,  and  other  places,  in  bands,  singing 
psalms,  canticles,  and  spiritual  songs,  or  reading 
and  instructing  each  other.  You  might  see  young 
women  seated  in  gardens  and  other  places,  who 
in  like  way  delighted  themselves  with  singing  all 
holy  things.  The  very  children  were  so  well  in- 
structed that  they  had  no  longer  a  puerility  of 
manner,  but  a  look  of  'manly  fortitude.  These 
things  had  so  well  prospered  that  people  had 
changed  their  old  manners,  even  to  their  very 
countenances." 

After  six  years  more  of  successive  improve- 
ments, making  sixteen  years  in  the  whole,  this 
persevering  man  at  last  accomplished  the  object 
for  which  he  had  toiled  and  suffered  so  much. 
He  produced  a  very  beautiful  kind  of  china,  which 
became  celebrated  under  the  name  of  Palissy 
Ware.  These  articles  were  elaborately  adorned 
with  vines,  flowers,  butterflies,  lizards,  serpents, 
and  other  animals.  He  had  always  been  such  a 
loving  observer  of  nature  that  we  cannot  wonder 
at  being  told  "  he  copied  these,  in  form  and  color, 
with  the  minute  exactness  of  a  naturalist,  so  that 
the  species  of  each  could  be  determined  accu- 
rately." These  beautiful  articles  sold  at  high 
prices.  Orders  flowed  in  from  kings  and  nobles. 
The  Constable  Montmorenci,  a  nobleman  of  im- 


BERNARD  PALISSY.  H7 

mense  wealth,  employed  Palissy  to  decorate  his 
magnificent  Chateau  d'Ecouen,  about  twelve  miles 
from  Paris.  There  he  made  richly  painted  win- 
dows, covered  with  Scripture  scenes,  some  of  his 
own  designing,  others  copied  from  Raphael  and 
Albert  Durer.  Vases  and  statuettes  of  his  beau- 
tiful china  were  deposited  in  various  places  ;  and 
the  floors  of  chapel  and  galleries  were  inlaid  with 
china  tiles  of  his  painting.  Among  the  groves  he 
formed  a  very  curious  grotto  of  china.  He  mod- 
elled rugged  rocks,  "  sloping,  tortuous,  and  lumpy," 
which  he  painted  with  imitations  of  such  herbs 
and  mosses  as  grow  in  moist  places.  Brilliant  liz- 
ards appeared  to  glide  over  its  surface,  "  in  many 
pleasant  gestures  and  agreeable  contortions."  In 
the  trenches  of  water  were  some  living  frogs  and 
fishes,  and  other  china  ones,  which  so  closely 
resembled  them  as  not  to  be  easily  distinguished. 
At  the  foot  of  the  rocks,  branches  of  coral,  of  his 
manufacture,  appeared  to  grow  in  the  water.  A 
poet  of  that  period,  praising  this  work,  says : 
"  The  real  lizard  on  the  moss  has  not  more  lustre 
than  the  lizards  in  that  house  made  famous  by 
your  new  work.  The  plants  look  not  sweeter  in 
the  fields,  and  green  meadows  are  not  more  pre- 
ciously enamelled,  than  those  which  grow  under 
your  hand."  The  Constable  Montmorenci  built  a 
convenient  shop  for  him,  where  he  worked  with 
two  of  his  sons.  A  large  china  dog  at  the  door 
was  so  natural,  that  the  dogs  often  barked  at  it 
and  challenged  it  to  fight. 


118  BERNARD  PALISSY. 

Meanwhile,  a  terrible  storm  was  gathering  over 
the  heads  of  the  Huguenots.  Civil  war  broke  out 
between  the  Catholics  and  Protestants.  Old  men 
were  burnt  for  quoting  Scripture,  and  young  girls 
stabbed  for  singing  psalms.  But  worldly  prosper- 
ity and  the  flattery  of  the  great  could  not  tempt 
Palissy  to  renounce  or  conceal  his  faith.  He  pur- 
sued his  artistic  labors,  though  he  says,  "  For  two 
months  I  was  greatly  terrified,  hearing  nothing 
every  day  but  reports  of  horrible  murders."  He 
would  have  fallen  among  the  first  victims,  had  it 
not  been  for  written  protections  from  powerful 
nobles,  who  wanted  ornamental  work  done  which 
no  other  man  could  do.  The  horrible  massacre 
of  St.  Bartholomew  occurred  when  he  was  sixty- 
three  years  old,  but  he  escaped  by  aid  of  his 
powerful  patrons.  The  officers  appointed  to  hunt 
out  Huguenots  longed  to  arrest  him,  but  did  not 
dare  to  do  it  in  the  daytime.  At  last  they  came 
tramping  about  his  house  at  midnight,  and  carried 
him  off  to  a  prison  in  Bordeaux.  The  judges 
would  gladly  have  put  him  to  death,  but  their 
proceedings  were  stopped  by  orders  from  the 
Queen  Mother,  Catherine  de  Medicis.  Montmo- 
renci,  Montpensier,  and  other  influential  Catholic 
nobles,  who  had  works  uncompleted,  and  who 
doubtless  felt  kindly  toward  the  old  artist,  inter- 
ceded with  her,  and  she  protected  him  ;  not  be- 
cause he  was  a  good  man,  but  because  the  art  he 
practised  was  unique  and  valuable.  The  enam- 


BERNARD  PALISSY.  H9 

elled  Italian  cup,  which  had  troubled  so  many- 
years  of  his  life,  proved  the  cause  of  its  being 
saved. 

The  last  ten  years  of  Palissy's  mortal  existence 
were  spent  in  Paris.  He  had  an  establishment  in 
the  grounds  of  the  Tuileries,  where  he  manufac- 
tured vases,  cups,  plates,  and  curious  garden-basins 
and  baskets,  ornamented  with  figures  in  relief. 
His  high  reputation  drew  toward  him  many  men 
of  taste  and  learning,  who,  knowing  his  interest  in 
all  the  productions  of  Nature,  presented  him  with 
many  curious  specimens  of  shells,  minerals,  fos- 
sils, &c.  He  formed  these  into  a  Museum,  where 
scholars  met  to  discuss  the  laws  and  operations  of 
Nature.  This  is  said  to  have  been  the  first  society 
established  in  Paris  for  the  pure  advancement  of 
science.  When  he  was  sixty-six  years  old,  he  be- 
gan a  course  of  public  lectures,  which  he  continued 
to  deliver  annually  for  ten  years.  These  were  the 
first  lectures  on  Natural  History  ever  delivered  in 
Paris.  The  best  men  of  the  Capital  went  there  to 
discuss  with  him,  and  to  hear  him  state,  in  his  sim- 
ple, earnest  fashion,  the  variety  of  curious  things 
he  had  observed  in  travels  by  mountain  and  sea- 
shore, through  field  and  forest,  and  in  his  exper- 
iments on  glass  and  china.  Some  pedants  were 
disposed  to  undervalue  his  teachings,  because  he 
had  never  learned  Greek  or  Latin.  Undisturbed 
by  this,  he  cordially  invited  them  to  come  and  dis- 
prove his  statements  if  they  could,  saying  :  "I  want 


120  BERNARD  PALISSY. 

to  ascertain  whether  the  Latins  know  more  upon 
these  subjects  than  I  do.  I  am  indeed  a  simple 
artisan,  poorly  enough  trained  in  letters  ;  but  the 
things  themselves  have  not  less  value  than  if  they 
were  uttered  by  a  man  more  eloquent.  I  had 
rather  speak  truth  in  my  rustic  tongue,  than  lie  in 
rhetoric." 

He  published  several  books  on  Agriculture, 
Volcanoes,  the  Formation  of  Rocks,  the  Laws  of 
Water,  &c.  His  last  book  was  written  when  he 
was  seventy-one  years  old.  Scientific  knowledge 
,was  then  in  its  infancy,  but  adequate  judges  con- 
sider his  ideas  far  in  advance  of  his  time.  A  mod- 
ern French  scholar  calls  him,  "  So  great  a  natu- 
ralist as  only  Nature  could  produce."  There  is  a 
refreshing  simplicity  about  his  style  of  writing,  and 
his  communications  with  the  world  were  obviously 
not  the  result  of  vanity,  but  of  general  benevo- 
lence and  religious  reverence.  He  felt  that  all  he 
had  was  from  God,  and  that  it  was  a  duty  to  im- 
part it  freely.  He  says  :  "  I  had  employed  much 
time  in  the  study  of  earths,  stones,  waters,  and 
metals  ;  and  old  age  pressed  me  to  multiply  the 
talents  God  had  given  me.  For  that  reason,  I 
thought  it  would  be  good  to  bring  to  the  light 
those  excellent  secrets,  in  order  to  bequeath  them 
to  posterity." 

He  continued  vigorous  in  mind  and  body,  and 
was  remarked  for  acuteness  and  ready  wit.  He 
abstained  from  theological  discussions  in  his  teach- 


BERNARD  PALISSY.  121 

ings,  but  made  no  secret  of  the  fact  that  his  opin- 
ions remained  unchanged.  Amid  the  frivolity, 
dissipation,  and  horrid  scenes  of  violence  that  were 
going  on  in  Paris,  he  quietly  busied  himself  mak- 
ing artistic  designs,  and  imparting  his  knowledge 
of  natural  history  ;  recreating  himself  frequently 
with  the  old  pleasure  of  rambling  in  field  and 
forest,  taking  loving  observation  of  all  God's  little 
creatures. 

He  was  seventy-six  years  old,  when  the  king, 
Henry  III.,  issued  a  decree  forbidding  Protes- 
tants to  exercise  their  worship,  on  pain  of  death, 
and  banishing  all  who  had  previously  practised  it. 
Angry  bigots  clamored  for  the  death  of  the  brave 
old  potter.  The  powerful  patrons  of  his  art 
again  prevented  his  execution  ;  but  the  tide  was 
so  strong  against  the  Reformers,  that  he  was  sent 
to  the  Bastile.  Two  Huguenot  girls  were  in  prison 
with  him,  and  they  mutually  sustained  each  other 
with  prayer  and  psalms.  The  king,  in  his  fashion- 
able frills  and  curls,  occasionally  visited  the  prisons, 
and  he  naturally  felt  a  great  desire  that  the  dis- 
tinguished old  Bernard  Palissy  should  make  a 
recantation  of  his  faith.  One  day  he  said  to  him  : 
"  My  good  man,  you  have  been  forty-five  years  in 
the  service  of  the  queen,  my  mother,  or  in  mine ; 
and  in  the  midst  of  all  the  executions  and  mas- 
sacres, we  have  allowed  you  to  live  in  your  religion. 
But  now  I  am  so  hardly  pressed  by  the  Guise  party, 
and  by  my  people,  that  I  am  compelled,  in  spite  of 

6 


122  BERNARD  PALISSY. 

myself,  to  order  the  execution  of  these  two  poor 
young  women,  and  of  yourself  also,  unless  you 
recant."  "  Sire,"  replied  the  old  man,  "  that  is 
not  spoken  like  a  king.  You  have  often  said  you 
pitied  me  ;  but  now  I  pity  you  ;  because  you  have 
said,  '  I  am  compelled.'  These  girls  and  I,  who 
have  our  part  in  the  kingdom  of  Heaven,  will  teach 
you  to  talk  more  royally.  Neither  the  Guises,  nor 
all  your  people,  nor  yourself,  can  compel  the  old 
potter  to  bow  down  to  your  images  of  clay.  I 
can  die." 

The  two  girls  were  burnt  a  few  months  after- 
ward.    Palissy  remained  in  prison  four  years,  and 
there  he  died  at  eighty  years  of  age.     The  secrets 
of  the  Bastile  were  well   kept,  and  we   have    no 
record  of  those  years.     We  only  know  that,  like 
John  Bunyan,  he  wrote  a  good  deal   in  prison. 
The  thick,  dark  walls  must  have  been  dismal  to 
one  who  so  loved  the  free  air,  and  who  val- 
ued   trees    and   shrubs    "  beyond    silver 
and   gold."      But   the  martyr  was 
not  alone.     He  had  with  him 
the  God  whom  he  trusted, 
and  the  memories  of 
an  honest,  useful, 
and  religious 
life. 


OLD    AGE    COMING. 


By  Elizabeth  Hamilton,  a  Scotch  writer,  author  of  "  The 
Cottagers  of  Glenburnie,"  aiid  several  other  sensible  and  inter- 
esting works.  She  died,  unmarried,  about  fifty  years  ago,  nearly 
sixty  years  old.  These  lines  were  written  in  such  very  broad 
Scotch,  that  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  render  them  in  English, 
making  no  changes,  except  a  few  slight  variations,  which  the 
necessities  of  rhyme  required. 

IS  that  Old  Age,  who  's  knocking  at  the  gate  ? 
I  trow  it  is.     He  sha'n't  be  asked  to  wait. 
You  're  kindly  welcome,  friend  !     Nay,  do  not  fear 
.  To  show  yourself !     You  '11  cause  no  trouble  here. 
I  know  there 're  some  who  tremble  at  your  name, 
As  though  you  brought  with  you  reproach  or  shame  ; 
And  who  of  thousand  lies  would  bear  the  sin, 
Rather  than  own  you  for  their  kith  and  kin. 
But  far  from  shirking  you  as  a  disgrace, 
Thankful  I  am  to  live  to  see  your  face. 
Nor  will  I  e'er  disown  you,  or  take  pride 
To  think  how  long  I  might  your  visit  hide. 
I  '11  do  my  best  to  make  you  well  respected, 
And  fear  not  for  your  sake  to  be  neglected. 


124  OLD  AGE   COMING. 

Now  you  have  come,  and,  through  all  kinds  of  weather. 

We  're  doomed  from  this  time  forth  to  jog  together, 

I  'd  fain  make  compact  with  you,  firm  and  strong, 

On  terms  of  give  and  take,  to  hold  out  long. 

If  you  '11  be  civil,  I  will  liberal  be  ; 

"Witness  the  list  of  what  I  '11  give  to  thee. 

First  then,  I  here  make  o'er,  for  good  and  aye, 

All  youthful  fancies,  whether  bright  or  gay. 

Beauties  and  graces,  too,  might  be  resigned, 

But  much  I  fear  they  would  be  hard  to  find  ; 

For  'gainst  your  daddy  Time  they  could  not  stand, 

Nor  bear  the  grip  of  his  relentless  hand. 

But  there  's  my  skin,  which  you  may  further  crinkle, 

And  write  your  name,  at  length,  on  ev'ry  wrinkle. 

On  my  brown  locks  your  powder  you  may  throw, 

And  bleach  them  to  your  fancy,  white  as  snow. 

But  look  not,  Age,  so  Avistful  at  my  mouth, 

As  if  you  longed  to  pull  out  ev'ry  tooth  ! 

Let  them,  I  do  beseech  you,  keep  their  places  ! 

Though,  if  you  like,  you  're  free  to  paint  their  faces. 

My  limbs  I  yield  you  ;  and  if  you  see  meet 

To  clap  your  icy  shackles  on  my  feet, 

I  '11  not  refuse  ;  but  if  you  drive  out  gout, 

Will  bless  you  for  't,  and  offer  thanks  devout. 

So  much  I  give  to  you  with  free  good- will ; 

But,  0,  I  fear  that  more  you  look  for  still. 

I  know,  by  your  stern  look  and  meaning  leers, 

You  want  to  clap  your  fingers  on  my  ears. 

Right  willing,  too,  you  are,  as  I  surmise, 

To  cast  your  misty  powder  in  my  eyes. 

But,  0,  in  mercy  spare  my  little  twinklers  ! 

And  I  will  always  wear  your  crystal  blinkers. 


OLD  AGE   COMING.  125 

Then  'bout  my  ears  I  'd  fain  a  bargain  strike, 

And  give  my  hand  upon  it,  if  you  like. 

Well  then  —  would  you  consent  their  use  to  share  ? 

'T  would  serve  us  both,  and  be  a  bargain  rare. 

I  'd  have  it  thus,  —  When  babbling  fools  intrude, 

Gabbling  their  noisy  nonsense  for  no  good  ; 

Or  when  ill-nature,  well  brushed  up  with  wit, 

With  sneer  sarcastic,  takes  its  aim  to  hit ; 

Or  when  detraction,  meanest  sort  of  pride, 

Spies  out  small  faults,  and  seeks  great  worth  to  hide  ; 

Then  make  me  deaf  as  ever  deaf  can  be  ! 

At  all  such  times,  my  ears  I  lend  to  thee. 

But  when,  in  social  hours,  you  see  combined 

Genius  and  wisdom,  fruits  of  heart  and  mind, 

Good  sense,  good  nature,  wit  in  playful  mood, 

And  candor,  e'en  from  ill  extracting  good ; 

0,  then,  old  friend,  I  must  have  back  my  hearing  ! 

To  want  it  then  would  be  an  ill  past  bearing. 

I  'd  rather  sit  alone,  in  wakeful  dreaming, 

Than  catch  the  sound  of  words  without  their  meaning. 

You  will  not  promise  ?     O,  you  're  very  glum  ! 

Right  hard  to  manage,  you  're  so  cold  and  dumb  ! 

No  matter.  —  Whole  and  sound  I  '11  keep  my  heart. 

Not  from  one  crumb  on  't  will  I  ever  part. 

Its  kindly  warmth  shall  ne'er  be  chilled  by  all 

The  coldest  breath  that  from  your  lips  can  fall. 

You  need  n't  vex  yourself,  old  churl,  nor  fret ! 

My  kindly  feelings  you  shall  never  get. 

And  though  to  take  my  hearing  you  rejoice, 

In  spite  of  you,  I  '11  still  hear  friendship's  voice. 

And  though  you  take  the  rest,  it  shall  not  grieve  me  ; 

For  gleams  of  cheerful  spirits  you  must  leave  me. 


126  OLD  AGE   COMING. 

But  let  me  whisper  in  your  ear,  Old  Age, 

I  'm  bound  to  travel  with  you  but  one  stage. 

Be  't  long  or  short,  you  cannot  keep  me  back  ; 

And  when  we  reach  the  end  on  't,  you  must  pack  ! 

Be  't  soon  or  late,  we  part  forever  there  ! 

Other  companionship  I  then  shall  share. 

This  blessed  change  to  me  you  're  bound  to  bring. 

You  need  not  think  I  shall  be  loath  to  spring 

From  your  poor  feeble  side,  you  churl  uncouth  ! 

Into  the  arms  of  Everlasting  Youth. 

All  that  your  thieving  hands  have  stolen  away 

He  will,  with  interest,  to  me  repay. 

Fresh  gifts  and  graces  freely  he  '11  bestow, 

More  than  the  heart  has  wished,  or  mind  can  know. 

You  need  not  wonder  then,  nor  swell  with  pride, 

That  I  so  kindly  welcomed  you  as  guide 

Tb  one  who  's  far  your  better.     Now  all 's  told. 

Let  us  set  out  upon  our  journey  cold. 

With  no  vain  boasts,  no  vain  regrets  tormented, 

We  '11  quietly  jog  on  our  way,  contented. 


"  ON  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend ; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way ; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  is  past." 

GOLDSMITH. 


UNMARRIED    WOMEN. 


BY  L.    MARIA    CHILD. 


OCIETY  moves  slowly  toward  civiliza- 
tion, but  when  we  compare  epochs  half 
a  century,  or  even  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury apart,  we  perceive  many  signs  that 
progress  is  made.  Among  these  pleasant  indica- 
tions is  the  fact  that  the  phrase  "  old  maid  "  has 
gone  wellnigh  out  of  fashion  ;  that  jests  on  the 
subject  are  no  longer  considered  witty,  and  are 
never  uttered  by  gentlemen.  In  my  youth,  I  not 
unfrequently  heard  women  of  thirty  addressed 
something  in  this  style  :  "  What,  not  married  yet  ? 
If  you  don't  take  care,  you  will  outstand  your 
market."  Such  words  could  never  be  otherwise 
than  disagreeable,  nay,  positively  offensive,  to  any 
woman  of  sensibility  and  natural  refinement ;  and 
that  not  merely. on  account  of  wounded  vanity,  or 
disappointed  affection,  or  youthful  visions  receding 
in  the  distance,  but  because  the  idea  of  being  in 


128  UNMARRIED   WOMEN. 

the  market,  of  being  a  commodity,  rather  than  an 
individual,  is  odious  to  every  human  being. 

I  believe  a  large  proportion  of  unmarried  women 
are  so  simply  because  they  have  too  much  con- 
science and  delicacy  of  feeling  to  form  marriages 
of  interest  or  convenience,  without  the  concur- 
rence of  their  affections  and  their  taste.  A  wo- 
man who  is  determined  to  be  married,  and  who 
"  plays  her  cards  well,"  as  the  phrase  is,  usually 
succeeds.  But  how  much  more  estimable  and 
honorable  is  she  who  regards  a  life-union  as  too 
important  and  sacred  to  be  entered  into  from  mo- 
tives of  vanity  or  selfishness. 

To  rear  families  is  the  ordination  of  Nature, 
and  where  it  is  done  conscientiously  it  is  doubtless 
the  best  education  that  men  or  women  can  receive. 
But  I  doubt  the  truth  of  the  common  remark  that 
the  discharge  of  these  duties  makes  married  peo- 
ple less  selfish  than  unmarried  ones.  The  selfish- 
ness of  single  women  doubtless  shows  itself  in 
more  petty  forms ;  such  as  being  disturbed  by 
crumbs  on  the  carpet,  and  a  litter  of  toys  about 
the  house.  But  fathers  and  mothers  are  often  self- 
ish on  a  large  scale,  for  the  sake  of  advancing  the 
worldly  prosperity  or  social  condition  of  their  chil- 
dren. Not  only  is  spiritual  growth  frequently 
sacrificed  in  pursuit  of  these  objects,  but  princi- 
ples are  trampled  on,  which  involve  the  welfare 
of  the  whole  human  race.  Within  the  sphere  of 
my  own  observation,  I  must  confess  that  there 


UNMARRIED    WOMEN.  129 

is  a  larger  proportion  of  unmarried  than  of  mar- 
ried women  whose  sympathies  are  active  and 
extensive. 

I  have  before  my  mind  two  learned  sisters, 
familiar  with  Greek,  Latin,  and  French,  and  who, 
late  in  life,  acquired  a  knowledge  of  German  also. 
They  spent  more  than  sixty  years  together,  qui- 
etly digging  out  gold,  silver,  or  iron  from  the  rich 
mines  of  ancient  and  modern  literature,  and  free- 
ly imparting  their  treasures  wherever  they  were 
called  for.  No  married  couple  could  have  been 
more  careful  of  each  other  in  illness,  or  more 
accommodating  toward  each  other's  peculiarities ; 
yet  they  were  decided  individuals ;  and  their  talk 
never  wanted 

"  An  animated  No, 
To  brush  its  surface,  and  to  make  it  flow." 

Cultivated  people  enjoyed  their  conversation, 
which  was  both  wise  and  racy ;  a  steady  light  of 
good  sense  and  large  information,  with  an  occa- 
sional flashing  rocket  of  not  ill-natured  satire. 
Yet  their  intellectual  acquisitions  produced  no  con- 
tempt for  the  customary  occupations  of  women. 
All  their  friends  received  tasteful  keepsakes  of 
their  knitting,  netting,  or  crocheting,  and  all  the 
poor  of  the  town  had  garments  of  their  handi- 
work. Neither  their  sympathies  nor  their  views 
were  narrowed  by  celibacy.  Early  education  had 
taught  them  to  reverence  everything  that  was 
established  ;  but  with  this  reverence  they  mingled 

6*  I 


130  UNMARRIED    WOMEN. 

a  lively  interest  in  all  the  great  progressive  ques- 
tions of  the  day.  Their  ears  were  open  to  the 
recital  of  everybody's  troubles  and  everybody's 
joys.  On  New  Year's  day,  children  thronged 
round  them  for  books  and  toys,  and  every  poor 
person's  face  lighted  up  as  they  approached ;  for 
they  were  sure  of  kindly  inquiries  and  sympathiz- 
ing words  from  them,  and  their  cloaks  usually 
opened  to  distribute  comfortable  slippers,  or  warm 
stockings  of  their  own  manufacture.  When  this 
sisterly  bond,  rendered  so  beautiful  by  usefulness 
and  culture,  was  dissolved  by  death,  the  survivor 
said  of  her  who  had  departed :  "  During  all  her 
illness  she  leaned  upon  me  as  a  child  upon  its 
mother ;  and  O,  how  blessed  is  now  the  con- 
sciousness that  I  never  disappointed  her  !  "  This 
great  bereavement  was  borne  with  calmness,  for 
loneliness  was  cheered  by  hope  of  reunion.  On  the 
anniversary  of  her  loss  the  survivor  wrote  to  me : 
"  I  find  a  growing  sense  of  familiarity  with  the 
unseen  world.  It  is  as  if  the  door  were  invitingly 
left  ajar,  and  the  distance  were  hourly  diminishing. 
I  never  think  of  her  as  alone.  The  unusual  num- 
ber of  departed  friends  for  whom  we  had  recently 
mourned  seem  now  but  an  increase  to  her  happi- 
ness." 

I  had  two  other  unmarried  friends,  as  devoted 
to  each  other,  and  as  tender  of  each  other's  pe- 
culiarities as  any  wedded  couple  I  ever  knew. 
Without  being  learned,  they  had  a  love  of  general 


UNMARRIED    WOMEN.  131 

reading,  which,  with  active  charities,  made  their 
days  pass  profitably  and  pleasantly.  They  had 
the  orderly,  systematic  habits  common  to  single 
ladies,  but  their  sympathies  and  their  views  were 
larger  and  more  liberal  than  those  of  their  married 
sisters.  Their  fingers  were  busy  for  the  poor, 
whom  they  were  always  ready  to  aid  and  comfort, 
irrespective  of  nation  or  color.  Their  family 
affections  were  remarkably  strong,  yet  they  had 
the  moral  courage  to  espouse  the  unpopular  cause 
of  the  slave,  in  quiet  opposition  to  the  /prejudices 
of  beloved  relatives.  Death  sundered  this  tie 
when  both  were  advanced  in  years.  The  de- 
parted one,  though  not  distinguished  for  beauty 
during  her  mortal  life,  had,  after  her  decease,  a 
wonderful  loveliness,  like  that  of  an  angelic  child. 
It  was  the  outward  impress  of  her  interior  life. 

Few  marriages  are  more  beautiful  or  more  hap- 
py than  these  sisterly  unions  ;  and  the  same  may 
be  said  of  a  brother  and  sister,  whose  lives  are 
bound  together.  All  lovers  of  English  literature 
know  how  charmingly  united  in  mind  and  heart 
were  Charles  Lamb  and  his  gifted  sister ;  and  our 
own  poet,  Whittier,  so  clear  to  the  people's  heart, 
has  a  home  made  lovely  by  the  same  fraternal 
relation  of  mutual  love  and  dependence. 

A  dear  friend  of  mine,  whom  it  was  some  good 
man's  loss  not  to  have  for  a  life-mate,  adopted  the 
orphan  sons  of  her  brother,  and  reared  them  with 
more  than  parental  wisdom  and  tenderness,  caring 


132  UNMARRIED    WOMEN. 

for  all  their  physical  wants,  guiding  them  in  pre- 
cept and  example  by  the  most  elevated  moral 
standard,  bestowing  on  them  the  highest  intellec- 
tual culture,  and  studying  all  branches  with  them, 
that  she  might  in  all  things  be  their  companion. 

Nor  is  it  merely  in  such  connections,  which 
somewhat  resemble  wedded  life,  that  single  wo- 
men make  themselves  useful  and  respected.  Many 
remember  the  store  kept  for  so  long  a  time  in  Bos- 
ton by  Miss  Ann  Bent. 

Her  parents  being  poor,  she  early  began  to  sup- 
port herself  by  teaching.  A  relative  subsequently 
furnished  her  with  goods  to  sell  on  commission  ; 
and  in  this  new  employment  she  manifested  such 
good  judgment,  integrity,  and  general  business  ca- 
pacity, that  merchants  were  willing  to  trust  her  to 
any  extent.  She  acquired  a  handsome  property, 
which  she  used  liberally  to  assist  a  large  family  of 
sisters  and  nieces,  some  of  whom  she  established 
in  business  similar  to  her  own.  No  mother  or 
grandmother  was  ever  more  useful  or  beloved. 
One  of  her  nieces  said :  "  I  know  the  beauty  and 
purity  of  my  aunt's  character,  for  I  lived  with  her 
forty  years,  and  I  never  knew  her  to  say  or  do 
anything  which  might  not  have  been  said  or  done 
before  the  whole  world." 

I  am  ignorant  of  the  particulars  of  Miss  Bent's 
private  history ;  but  doubtless  a  woman  of  her 
comely  looks,  agreeable  manners,  and  excellent 
character,  might  have  found  opportunities  to  mar- 


UNMARRIED   WOMEN,  133 

ry,  if  that  had  been  a  paramount  object  with  her. 
She  lived  to  be  more  than  eighty-eight  years  old, 
universally  respected  and  beloved ;  and  the  numer- 
ous relatives,  toward  whom  she  had  performed  a 
mother's  part,  cheered  her  old  age  with  grateful 
affection. 

There  have  also  been  many  instances  of  single 
women  who  have  enlivened  and  illustrated  their 
lives  by  devotion  to  the  beautiful  arts.  Of  these 
none  are  perhaps  more  celebrated  than  the  Italian 
Sofonisba  Angusciola  and  her  two  accomplished 
sisters.  These  three  "  virtuous  gentlewomen,"  as 
Vasari  calls  them,  spent  their  lives  together  in 
most  charming  union.  All  of  them  had  uncom- 
mon talent  for  painting,  but  Sofonisba  was  the 
most  gifted.  One  of  her  most  beautiful  pictures 
represents  her  two  sisters  playing  at  chess,  attend- 
ed by  the  faithful  old  duenna,  who  accompanied 
them  everywhere.  This  admirable  artist  lived  to 
be  old  and  blind ;  and  the  celebrated  Vandyke 
said  of  her,  in  her  later  years :  "  I  have  learned 
more  from  one  blind  old  woman  in  Italy,  than 
from  all  the  masters  of  the  art." 

Many  single  women  have  also  employed  their 
lives  usefully  and  agreeably  as  authors.  There  is 
the  charming  Miss  Mitford, "whose  writings  cheer 
the  soul  like  a  meadow  of  cowslips  in  the  spring- 
time. There  is  Frederica  Bremer,  whose  writings 
have  blessed  so  many  souls.  There  is  Joanna 
Baillie,  Maria  Edgeworth,  Elizabeth  Hamilton, 


134  UNMARRIED    WOMEN. 

and  our  own  honored  Catherine  M.  Sedgwick, 
whose  books  have  made  the  world  wiser  and  bet- 
ter than  they  found  it. 

I  am  glad  to  be  sustained  in  my  opinions  on  this 
subject  by  a  friend  whose  own  character  invests 
single  life  with  peculiar  dignity.  In  a  letter  to 
me,  she  says  :  "  I  object  to  having  single  women 
called  a  class.  They  are  individuals,  differing  in 
the  qualities  of  their  characters,  like  other  human 
beings.  Their  isolation,  as  a  general  thing,  is  the 
result  of  unavoidable  circumstances.  The  Author 
of  Nature  doubtless  intended  that  men  and  women 
should  live  together.  But,  in  the  present  state 
of  the  world's  progress,  society  has,  in  many  re- 
spects, become  artificial  in  proportion  to  its  civili- 
zation ;  and  consequently  the  number  of  single 
women  must  constantly  increase.  If  humanity 
were  in  a  state  of  natural,  healthy  development, 
this  would  not  be  so;  for  young  people  would  then 
be  willing  to  begin  married  life  with  simplicity  and 
frugality,  and  real  happiness  would  increase  in 
proportion  to  the  diminution  of  artificial  wants. 
This  prospect,  however,  lies  in  the  future,  and 
many  generations  of  single  women  must  come  and 
go  before  it  will  be  realized. 

"  But  the  achievement  of  character  is  the  highest 
end  that  can  be  proposed  to  any  human  being,  and 
there  is  nothing  in  single  life  to  prevent  a  woman 
from  attaining  this  great  object ;  on  the  contrary, 
it  is  in  many  respects  peculiarly  favorable  to  it. 


UNMARRIED    WOMEN.  135 

The  measure  of  strength  in  character  is  the  power 
to  conquer  circumstances  when  they  refuse  to  co- 
operate with  us.  The  temptations  peculiarly  inci- 
dent to  single  life  are  petty  selfishness,  despondency 
under  the  suspicion  of  neglect,  and  ennui  from  the 
want  of  interesting  occupation.  If  an  ordinary, 
feeble-minded  woman  is  exposed  to  these  tempta- 
tions, she  will  be  very  likely  to  yield  to  them. 
But  she  would  not  be  greatly  different  in  charac- 
ter, if  protected  by  a  husband  and  flanked  with 
children  ;  her  feebleness  would  remain  the  same, 
and  would  only  manifest  itself  under  new  forms. 

"  Marriage,  under  favorable  circumstances,  is 
unquestionably  a  promoter  of  human  happiness. 
But  mistakes  are  so  frequently  made  by  entering 
thoughtlessly  into  this  indissoluble  connection,  and 
so  much  wretchedness  ensues  from  want  of  suffi- 
cient mental  discipline  to  make  the  best  of  what 
cannot  be  remedied,  that  most  people  can  discover 
among  their  acquaintance  as  large  a  proportion 
of  happy  single  women  as  they  can  of  happy  wives. 
Moreover,  the  happiness  of  unmarried  women  is 
as  independent  of  mere  gifts  of  fortune,  as  that 
of  other  individuals.  Indeed,  all  solid  happiness 
must  spring  from  inward  sources.  Some  of  the 
most  truly  contented  and  respectable  women  I 
have  ever  known  have  been  domestics,  who  grew 
old  in  one  family,  and  were  carefully  looked  after, 
in  their  declining  days,  by  the  children  of  those 
whom  they  faithfully  served  in  youth. 


136  UNMARRIED    WOMEN. 

"  Most  single  women  might  have  married,  had 
they  seized  upon  the  first  opportunity  that  offered ; 
but  some  unrevealed  attachment,  too  high  an  ideal, 
or  an  innate  fastidiousness,  have  left  them  solitary  ; 
therefore,  it  is  fair  to  assume  that  many  of  them 
have  more  sensibility  and  true  tenderness  than 
some  of  their  married  sisters.  Those  who  remain 
single  in  consequence  of  too  much  worldly  ambi- 
tion, or  from  the  gratification  of  coquettish  vanity, 
naturally  swell  the  ranks  of  those  peevish,  discon- 
tented ones,  who  bring  discredit  on  single  life  in 
the  abstract.  But  when  a  delicate  gentlewoman 
deliberately  prefers  passing  through  life  alone,  to 
linking  her  fate  with  that  of  a  man  toward  whom 
she  feels  no  attraction,  why  should  she  ever  repent 
of  so  high  an  exercise  of  her  reason  ?  This  class 
of  women  are  often  the  brightest  ornaments  of 
society.  Men  find  in  them  calm,  thoughtful 
friends,  and  safe  confidants,  on  whose  sympathy 
they  can  rely  without  danger.  In  the  nursery, 
their  labors,  being  voluntary,  are  less  exhausting 
than  a  parent's.  When  the  weary,  fretted  mother 
turns  a  deaf  ear  to  the  twenty-times-repeated  ques- 
tion, the  baffled  urchins  retreat  to  the  indulgent 
aunt,  or  dear  old  familiar  friend,  sure  of  obtaining 
a  patient  hearing  and  a  kind  response.  Almost 
everybody  can  remember  some  samples  of  such 
Penates,  whose  hearts  seem  to  be  too  large  to  be 
confined  to  any  one  set  of  children. 

"  Some  of  my  fairest  patterns  of  feminine  excel- 


UNMARRIED    WOMEN.  137 

lence  have  been  of  the  single  sisterhood.  Of 
those  unfortunate  ones  who  are  beacons,  rather 
than  models,  I  cannot  recall  an  individual  whose 
character  I  think  would  have  been  materially  im- 
proved by  marriage.  The  faults  which  make  a 
single  woman  disagreeable  would  probably  exist  to 
the  same  degree  if  she  were  a  wife  ;  and  the  vir- 
tues which  adorn  her  in  a  state  of  celibacy  would 
make  her  equally  beloved  and  honored  if  she  were 
married.  The  human  soul  is  placed  here  for  de- 
velopment and  progress  ;  and  it  is  capable  of  con- 
verting all  circumstances  into  means  of  growth 
and  advancement. 

"  Among  my  early  recollections  is  that  of  a  lady 
of  stately  presence,  who  died  while  I  was  still 
young,  but  not  till  she  had  done  much  to  remove 
from  my  mind  the  idea  that  the  name  of  '  old 
maid '  was  a  term  of  reproach.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  Judge  Russell,  and  aunt  to  the  late 
Reverend  and  beloved  Dr.  Lowell.  She  had  been 
one  of  a  numerous  family  of  brothers  and  sisters, 
but  in  my  childhood  was  sole  possessor  of  the  old 
family  mansion,  where  she  received  her  friends 
and  practised  those  virtues  which  gained  for  her 
the  respect  of  the  whole  community.  Sixty  years 
ago,  it  was  customary  to  speak  of  single  women 
with  far  less  deference  than  it  now  is  ;  and  I  re- 
member being  puzzled  by  the  extremely  respectful 
manner  in  which  she  was  always  mentioned.  If 
there  were  difficulties  in  the  parish,  or  if  any  doubt- 


138  UNMARRIED    WOMEN. 

ful  matters  were  under  discussion,  the  usual  ques- 
tion was  '  What  is  Miss  Russell's  opinion  ? '  I 
used  to  think  to  myself,  '  She  is  an  old  maid,  after 
all,  yet  people  always  speak  of  her  as  if  she  were 
some  great  person.' 

"  Miss  Burleigh  was  another  person  of  whom  I 
used  to  hear  much  through  the  medium  of  mutual 
friends.  She  resided  with  a  married  sister  in  Sa- 
lem, and  was  the  '  dear  Aunt  Susan,'  not  only  of 
the  large  circle  of  her  own  nephews  and  nieces, 
but  of  all  their  friends  and  favorites.  Having 
ample  means,  she  surrounded  herself  with  choice 
books  and  pictures,  and  such  objects  of  Art  or 
Nature  as  would  entertain  and  instruct  young 
minds.  Her  stores  of  knowledge  were  prodigious, 
and  she  had  such  a  happy  way  of  imparting  it, 
that  lively  boys  were  glad  to  leave  their  play,  to 
spend  an  hour  with  Aunt  Susan.  She  read  to  her 
young  friends  at  stated  times,  and  made  herself 
perfectly  familiar  with  them  ;  and  as  they  grew 
older  she  became  their  chosen  confidant.  She  was, 
in  fact,  such  a  centre  of  light  and  warmth,  that  no 
one  could  approach  her  sphere  without  being  con- 
scious of  its  vivifying  influence. 

"  '  Aunt  Sarah  Stetson, 'another single  lady,  wa.s 
a  dear  and  honored  friend  of  my  own.  She  was 
of  masculine  size  and  stature,  gaunt  and  ungainly 
in  the  extreme.  -But  before  she  had  uttered  three 
sentences,  her  hearers  said  to  themselves,  '  Here  is 
a  wise  woman  !  She  was  the  oldest  of  thirteen 


UNMARRIED    WOMEN.  139 

children,  early  deprived  of  their  father,  and  she 
bore  the  brunt  of  life  from  youth  upward.  She 
received  only  such  education  as  was  afforded  by 
the  public  school  of  an  obscure  town  seventy  years 
ago.  To  add  to  their  scanty  means  of  subsistence, 
she  learned  the  tailor's  trade.  In  process  of  time, 
the  other  children  swarmed  off  from  the  parental 
hive,  the  little  farm  was  sold,  and  she  lived  alone 
with  her  mother.  She  built  a  small  cottage  out  of 
her  own  earnings,  and  had  the  sacred  pleasure  of 
taking  her  aged  parent  to  her  own  home,  and  min- 
istering with  her  own  hands  to  all  her  wants.  For 
sixteen  years,  she  never  spent  a  night  from  home, 
but  assiduously  devoted  herself  to  the  discharge  of 
this  filial  duty,  and  to  the  pursuance  of  her  trade. 
Yet  in  the  midst  of  this  busy  life,  she  managed  to 
become  respectably  familiar  with  English  literature, 
especially  with  history.  Whatever  she  read,  she 
derived  from  it  healthful  aliment  for  the  growth  of 
her  mental  powers.  She  was  full  of  wise  maxims 
and  rules  of  life  ;  not  doled  out  with  see-saw  prosi- 
ness,  but  with  strong  common  sense,  rich  and  racy, 
and  frequently  flavored  with  the  keenest  satire. 
She  had  a  flashing  wit,  and  wonderful  power  of 
detecting  shams  of  all  sorts.  Her  religious  opin- 
ions were  orthodox,  and  she  was  an  embodiment 
of  the  Puritan  character.  She  was  kindly  in  her 
feelings,  and  alive  to  every  demonstration  of  affec- 
tion, but  she  had  a  granite  firmness  of  principle, 
which  rendered  her  awful  toward  deceivers  and 


140  UNMARRIED   WOMEN. 

transgressors.  All  the  intellectual  people  of  the 
town  sought  her  company  with  avidity.  The  Uni- 
tarian minister  and  his  family,  a  wealthy  man,  who 
happened  to  be  also  the  chief  scholar  in  the  place, 
and  the  young  people  generally,  took  pleasure  in 
resorting  to  Aunt  Sarah's  humble  home,  to  minis- 
ter to  her  simple  wants,  and  gather  up  her  words  of 
wisdom.  Her  spirit  was  bright  and  cheerful  to  the 
last.  One  of  her  sisters,  who  had  been  laboring 
sixteen  years  as  a  missionary  among  the  south- 
western Indians,  came  to  New  England  to  visit 
the  scattered  members  of  her  family.  After  see- 
ing them  in  their  respective  homes,  she  declared  : 
4  Sarah  is  the  most  light-hearted  of  them  all ;  and 
it  is  only  by  her  fireside  that  I  have  been  able  to 
forget  past  hardships  in  merry  peals  of  laughter.' 

"  During  my  last  interview  with  Aunt  Sarah, 
when  she  was  past  seventy  years  of  age,  she  said, 
'  I  have  lived  very  agreeably  single  ;  but  if  I  be- 
come infirm,  I  suppose  I  shall  feel  the  want  of  life's 
nearest  ties.'  In  her  case,  however,  the  need  was 
of  short  duration,  and  an  affectionate  niece  sup- 
plied the  place  of  a  daughter. 

"  Undoubtedly,  the  arms  of  children  and  grand- 
children form  the  most  natural  and  beautiful  cradle 
for  old  age.  But  loneliness  is  often  the  widow's 
portion,  as  well  as  that  of  the  single  woman  ;  and 
parents  are  often  left  solitary  by  the  death  or  emi- 
gration of  their  children. 

"  I  am  tempted  to  speak  also  of  a  living  friend, 


UNMARRIED    WOMEN.  141 

now  past  her  sixtieth  year.  She  is  different  from 
the  others,  but  this  difference  only  confirms  my 
theory  that  the  mind  can  subdue  all  things  to  itself. 
This  lady  is  strictly  feminine  in  all  her  habits  and 
pursuits,  and  regards  the  needle  as  the  chief  im- 
plement of  woman's  usefulness.  If  the  Dorcas 
labors  performed  by  her  one  pair  of  hands  could 
be  collected  into  a  mass,  out  of  the  wear  and  waste 
of  half  a  century,  they  would  form  an  amazing 
pile.  In  former  years,  when  her  health  allowed 
her  to  circulate  among  numerous  family  connec- 
tions, her  visits  were  always  welcomed  as  a  jubilee  ; 
for  every  dilapidated  wardrobe  was  sure  to  be 
renovated  by  Aunt  Mary's  nimble  fingers.  She 
had  also  a  magic  power  of  drawing  the  little  ones 
to  herself.  Next  to  their  fathers  and  mothers,  she 
was  the  best  beloved.  The  influence  which  her 
loving  heart  gained  over  them  in  childhood  in- 
creased with  advancing  years.  She  is  now  the  best 
and  dearest  friend  of  twenty  or  thirty  nephews  and 
nieces,  some  of  whom  have  families  of  fheir  own. 
"  A  large  amount  of  what  is  termed  mother-wit,  a 
readiness  at  repartee,  and  quickness  in  seizing  un- 
expected associations  of  words  or  ideas,  rendered 
her  generally  popular  in  company  ;  but  the  deep 
cravings  of  her  heart  could  never  be  satisfied  with 
what  is  termed  success  in  society.  The  intimate 
love  of  a  few  valued  friends  was  what  she  always 
coveted,  and  never  failed  to  win.  For  several  years 
she  has  been  compelled  by  ill  health  to  live  entirely 


142  UNMARRIED    WOMEN. 

at  home.  There  she  now  is,  fulfilling  the  most 
important  mission  of  her  whole  beneficent  life, 
training  to  virtue  and  usefulness  five  mothei'less 
children  of  her  brother.  Feeble  and  emaciated, 
she  lives  in  her  chamber  surrounded  by  these 
orphans,  who  now  constitute  her  chief  hold  on  life. 
She  shares  all  their  pleasures,  is  the  depositary  of 
their  little  griefs,  and  unites  in  herself  the  relations 
of  aunt,  mother,  and  grandmother.  She  has  faith 
to  believe  that  her  frail  thread  of  existence  will  be 
prolonged  for  the  sake  of  these  little  ones.  The 
world  still  comes  to  her,  in  her  seclusion,  through 
a  swarm  of  humble  friends  and  dependants,  who 
find  themselves  comforted  and  ennobled  by  the 
benignant  patience  with  which  she  listens  to  their 
various  experiences,  and  gives  them  kindly,  sym- 
pathizing counsel,  more  valuable  to  them  than 
mere  pecuniary  aid.  Her  spirit  of  self-abnegation 
is  carried  almost  to  asceticism  ;  but  she  reserves 
her  severity  wholly  for  herself;  toward  others  she 
is  prodigal  of  indulgence.  This  goodly  temple  of 
a  human  soul  was  reared  in  these  fair  proportions 
upon  a  foundation  of  struggles,  disappointments, 
and  bereavements.  A  friend  described  her  serene 
exterior  as  a  '  placid,  ocean-deep  manner  '  ;  under 
it  lies  a  silent  history  of  trouble  and  trial,  con- 
verted into  spiritual  blessings. 

"  The  conclusion  of  the  matter  in  my  mind  is, 
that  a  woman  may  make  a  respectable  appearance 
as  a  wife,  with  a  character  far  less  noble  than 


UNMARRIED    WOMEN.  143 

is   necessary  to   enable   her  to  lead  a  single  life 
with    usefulness    and    dignity.      She    is    sheltered 
and    concealed    behind    her    husband  ;    but    the 
unmarried  woman  must   rely   upon   herself;    and 
she  lives   in  a  glass  house,  open   to   the  gaze  of 
every  passer-by.     To  the  feeble-minded,  marriage 
is    almost    a   necessity,    and    if   wisely   formed    it 
doubtless    renders    the   life    of  any  woman    more 
happy.     But  happiness  is  not  the  sole  end  and  aim 
of  this   life.       We  are   sent   here  to  build  up   a 
character  ;    and  sensible   women   may  easily 
reconcile  themselves  to  a  single  life,  since 
even  its  disadvantages  may  be  con- 
verted into  means  of  develop- 
ment of  all  the  faculties 
with    which     God 
has  endowed 
them." 


You  are  "  getting  into  years."  Yes,  but  the 
years  are  getting  into  you  ;  the  ripe,  mellow  years. 
One  by  one,  the  crudities  of  your  youth  are  falling 
off  from  you  ;  the  vanity,  the  egotism,  the  bewil- 
derment, the  uncertainty.  Every  wrong  road  into 
which  you  have  wandered  has  brought  you,  by  the 
knowledge  of  that  mistake,  nearer  to  the  truth. 
Nearer  and  nearer  you  are  approaching  your- 
self.—  GAIL  HAMILTON. 


THE    OLD    MAID'S    PRAYER    TO 
DIANA. 


By  Mrs.  Tiglie,  an  Irish  author,  who  wrote  more  than  fifty 
years  ago,  when  single  women  had  not  attained  to  the  honorable 
position  which  they  now  occupy. 

SINCE  thou  and  the  stars,  my  dear  goddess,  decree 
That,  old  maid  as  I  am,  an  old  maid  I  must  be, 
O,  hear  the  petition  I  offer  to  thee ! 
For  to  bear  it  must  be  my  endeavor  : 
From  the  grief  of  my  friendships  all  drooping  around, 
Till  not  one  whom  I  loved  in  my  youth  can  be  found ; 
From  the  legacy-hunters,  that  near  us  abound, 
Diana,  thy  servant  deliver ! 

From  the  scorn  of  the  young,  and  the  flaunts  of  the  gay, 

From  all  the  trite  ridicule  rattled  away 

By  the  pert  ones,  who  .know  nothing  wiser  to  say,  — 

Or  a  spirit  to  laugh  at  them,  give  her ! 

From  repining  at  fancied  neglected  desert; 

Or,  vain  of  a  civil  speech,  bridling  alert ; 

From  finical  niceness,  or  slatternly  dirt ; 

Diana,  thy  servant  deliver  ! 


THE  OLD  MAID'S  PRAYER  TO  DIANA.     145 

From  over  solicitous  guarding  of  pelf; 

From  humor  unchecked,  that  most  obstinate  elf; 

From  every  unsocial  attention  to  self, 

Or  ridiculous  whim  whatsoever ; 

From  the  vaporish  freaks,  or  methodical  airs, 

Apt  to  sprout  in  a  brain  that 's  exempted  from  cares  ; 

From  impertinent  meddling  in  others'  affairs  ; 

Diana,  thy  servant  deliver ! 

From  the  erring  attachments  of  desolate  souls ; 
From  the  love  of  spadille,  and  of  matadore  voles ;  * 
Or  of  lap-dogs,  and  parrots,  and  monkeys,  and  owls, 
Be  they  ne'er  so  uncommon  and  clever ; 
But  chief  from  the  love,  with  all  loveliness  flown, 
Which  makes  the  dim  eye  condescend  to  look  down 
On  some  ape  of  a  fop,  or  some  owl  of  a  clown ; 
Diana,  thy  servant  deliver  ! 

From  spleen  at  beholding  the  young  more  caressed ; 
From  pettish  asperity,  tartly  expressed  ; 
From  scandal,  detraction,  and  every  such  pest; 
From  all,  thy  true  servant  deliver ! 
Nor  let  satisfaction  depart  from  her  cot ; 
Let  her  sing,  if  at  ease,  and  be  patient  if  not ; 
Be  pleased  when  regarded,  content  when  forgot, 
Till  the  Fates  her  slight  thread  shall  dissever. 

*  Terms  used  in  Ombre,  a  game  at  cards. 


GRANDFATHER'S    REVERIE. 

By  THEODORE    PARKER. 

'RANDFATHER  is  old.  His  back  is 
bent.  In  the  street  he  sees  crowds  of 
men  looking  dreadfully  young,  and 
walking  fearfully  swift.  He  wonders 
where  all  the  old  folks  are.  Once,  when  a  boy,  he 
could  not  find  people  young  enough  for  him,  and 
sidled  up  to  any  young  stranger  he  met  on  Sun- 
days, wondering  why  God  made  the  world  so  old. 
Now  he  goes  to  Commencement  to  see  his  grand- 
son take  his  degree,  and  is  astonished  at  the  youth 
of  the  audience.  "  This  is  new,"  he  says  ;  "  it 
did  not  use  to  be  so  fifty  years  ago."  At  meeting, 
the  minister  seems  surprisingly  young,  and  the  au- 
dience young.  He  looks  round,  and  is  astonished 
that  there  are  so  few  venerable  heads.  The  audi- 
ence seem  not  decorous.  They  come  in  late,  and 
hurry  off  early,  clapping  the  doors  after  them  with 
irreverent  bang.  But  grandfather  is  decorous, 
well  mannered,  early  in  his  seat ;  if  jostled,  he 


GRANDFATHER'S  REVERIE.  147 

jostles  not  again  ;  elbowed,  he  returns  it  not  ; 
crowded,  he  thinks  no  evil.  He  is  gentlemanly  to 
the  rude,  obliging  to  the  insolent  and  vulgar ;  for 
grandfather  is  a  gentleman  ;  not  puffed  up  with 
mere  money,  but  edified  with  well-grown  manli- 
ness. Time  has  dignified  his  good  manners. 

It  is  night.  The  family  are  all  abed.  Grand- 
father sits  by.  his  old-fashioned  fire.  He  draws 
his  old-fashioned  chair  nearer  to  the  hearth.  On 
the  stand  which  his  mother  gave  him  are  the  can- 
dlesticks, also  of  old  time.  The  candles  are  three 
quarters  burnt  down  ;  the  fire  on  the  hearth  also 
is  low.  He  has  been  thoughtful  all  day,  talking 
half  to  himself,  chanting  a  bit  of  verse,  humming 
a  snatch  of  an  old  tune.  He  kissed  his  pet  grand- 
daughter more  tenderly  than  common,  before  she 
went  to  bed.  He  takes  out  of  his  bosom  a  little 
locket ;  nobody  ever  sees  it.  Therein  are  two 
little  twists  of  hair.  As  Grandfather  looks  at  them, 
the  outer  twist  of  hair  becomes  a  whole  head  of 
ambrosial  curls.  He  remembers  stolen  interviews, 
meetings  by  moonlight.  He  remembers  how  sweet 
the  evening  star  looked,  and  how  he  laid  his  hand 
on  another's  shoulder,  and  said,  "  You  are  my 
evening  star." 

The  church-clock  strikes  the  midnight  hour. 
He  looks  in  his  locket  again.  The  other  twist  is 
the  hair  of  his  first-born  son.  At  this  same  hour 
of  midnight,  once,  many  years  ago,  he  knelt  and 
prayed,  when  the  long  agony  was  over,  —  "  Mv 


148  GRANDFATHERS  REVERIE. 

God,  I  thank  thee  that,  though  I  am  a  father,  I 
am  still  a  husband,  too  !  What  am  I,  that  unto 
me  a  life  should  be  given  and  another  spared  !  " 
Now  he  has  children,  and  children's  children,  the 
joy  of  his  old  age.  But  for  many  a  year  his  wife 
has  looked  to  him  from  beyond  the  evening  star. 
She  is  still  the  evening  star  herself,  yet  more  beau- 
tiful ;  a  star  that  never  sets  ;  not  mortal  wife  now, 
but  angel. 

The  last  stick  on  his  andirons  snaps  asunder,  and 
falls  outward.     Two  faintly  smoking  brands 
stand  there.     Grandfather  lays  them  to- 
gether,   and    they    flame    up  ;     the 
two  smokes  are  united  in  one 
flame.     "  Even    so    let   it 
be  in  heaven,"   says 
Grandfather. 

r 

USELESS,  do  you  say  you  are  ?  You  are  of  great 
use.  You  really  are.  How  are  you  useful  ?  By 
being  a  man  that  is  old.  Your  old  age  is  a  public 
good.  It  is  indeed.  No  child  ever  listens  to  your 
talk  without  havino-  a  cood  done  it  that  no  school- 

w  O 

ing  could  do.  When  you  are  walking,  no  one  ever 
opens  a  gate  for  you  to  pass  through,  and  no  one 
ever  honors  you  with  any  kind  of  help,  without 
being  himself  the  better  for  what  he  does  ;  for 
fellow-feeling  with  you  ripens  his  soul  for  him.  — 
MOUNTFORD. 


THE    OLD    COUPLE. 


IT  stands  in  a  sunny  meadow, 
The  house  so  mossy  and  brown, 
With  its  cumbrous  old  stone  chimneys, 
And  the  gray  roof  sloping  down. 

The  trees  fold  their  green  arms  round  it, 

The  trees  a  century  old, 
And  the  winds  go  chanting  through  them, 

And  the  sunbeams  drop  their  gold. 

The  cowslips  spring  in  the  marshes, 
And  the  roses  bloom  on  the  hill, 

And  beside  the  brook  in  the  pastures 
The  herds  go  feeding  at  will. 

The  children  have  gone  and  left  them ; 

They  sit  in  the  sun  alone ; 
And  the  old  wife's  tears  are  falling, 
*       As  she  harks  to  the  well-known  tone 

That  won  her  heart  in  girlhood, 

That  has  soothed  her  in  many  a  care, 

And  praises  her  now  for  the  brightness 
Her  old  face  used  to  wear. 


150  THE   OLD   COUPLE. 

She  thinks  again  of  her  bridal,  — 
How,  dressed  in  her  robe  of  white, 

She  stood  by  her  gay  young  lover 
In  the  morning's  rosy  light. 

O,  the  morning  is  rosy  as  ever, 

But  the  rose  from  her  cheek  is  fled ; 

And  the  sunshine  still  is  golden, 
But  it  falls  on  a  silvery  head. 

And  the  spring-like  dreams,  once  vanished, 
Come  back  in  her  winter-time, 

Till  her  feeble  pulses  tremble 

With  the  thrill  of  girlhood's  prime. 

And,  looking  forth  from  the  window, 
She  thinks  how  the  trees  have  grown. 

Since,  clad  in  her  bridal  whiteness, 
She  crossed  the  old  door-stone. 

Though  dimmed  her  eyes'  bright  azure, 
And  dimmed  her  hair's  young  gold, 

The  love  in  her  girlhood  plighted 
Has  never  grown  dim  nor  old. 

They  sat  in  peace  in  the  sunshine, 
Till  the  day  was  almost  done  ; 

And  then  at  its  close  an  angel 
Stole  over  the  threshold  stone 

He  folded  their  hands  together ; 

He  touched  their  eyes  with  balm ; 
And  their  last  breath  floated  upward, 

Like  the  close  of  a  solemn  psalm. 


THE  OLD   COUPLE.  151 

Like  a  bridal  pair  they  traversed 

The  unseen  mystical  road, 
That  leads  to  the  beautiful  city, 

"  Whose  Builder  and  Maker  is  God." 

Perhaps,  in  that  miracle  country, 
They  will  give  her  lost  youth  back, 

And  the  flowers  of  a  vanished  spring-time 
"Will  bloom  in  the  spirit's  track. 

One  draught  of  the  living  waters 

Shall  call  back  his  manhood's  prime, 

And  eternal  years  shall  measure 
The  love  that  outlived  time. 

But  the  forms  that  they  left  behind  them, 

The  wrinkles  and  silver  hair, 
Made  holy  to  us  by  the  kisses 

The  angel  had  printed  there, 

We  will  hide  away  'neath  the  willows 

When  the  day  is  low  in  the  west, 
Where  the  sunshine  gleams  upon  them, 

And  no  winds  disturb  their  rest. 

And  we  '11  suffer  no  telltale  tombstone, 

With  its  age  and  date,  to  rise 
O'er  the  two  who  are  old  no  longer, 

In  their  Father's  house  in  the  skies. 

HOME  JOURNAL. 


A   STORY   OF    ST.    MARK'S    EVE. 
BY  THOMAS    HOOD. 


St.  Mark's  Day  is  a  festival  which  has  been  observed  on  the 
25th  of  April,  in  Catholic  countries,  from  time  immemorial. 
The  superstition  alluded  to  in  the  following  story  was  formerly 
very  generally  believed,  and  vigils  in  the  church-porch  at  mid- 
night were  common. 

HOPE  it'll  choke  thee  !  "   said  Master 
Giles,  the  yeoman  ;  and,  as  he  said  it, 
he  banged  his  big  red  fist  on  the  old 
&l   oak  table.     "  I  do  say  I  hope  it  '11  choke 
thee  !  " 

The  dame  made  no  reply.  She  was  choking 
with  passion  and  a  fowl's  liver,  which  was  the 
cause  of  the  dispute.  Much  has  been  said  and 
sung  concerning  the  advantage  of  congenial  tastes 
amongst  married  people  ;  but  the  quarrels  of  this 
Kentish  couple  arose  from  too  great  coincidence 
in  their  tastes.  They  were  both  fond  of  the  little 
delicacy  in  question,  but  the  dame  had  managed  to 
secure  the  morsel  to  herself.  This  was  sufficient 
to  cause  a  storm  of  high  words,  which,  properly 
understood,  signifies  very  low  language.  Their 


A   STORY  OF  ST.  MARKS  EVE.         153 

meal  times  seldom  passed  over  without  some  con- 
tention of  this  sort.  As  sure  as  the  knives  and 
forks  clashed,  so  did  they  ;  being  in  fact  equally 
greedy  and  disagreedy  ;  and  when  they  did  pick  a 
quarrel,  they  picked  it  to  the  bone. 

It  was  reported  that,  on  some  occasions,  they 
had  not  even  contented  themselves  with  hard 
speeches,  but  had  come  to  scuffling ;  he  taking  to 
boxing  and  she  to  pinching,  though  in  a  far  less 
amicable  manner  than  is  practised  by  the  taker  of 
snuff.  On  the  present  difference,  however,  they 
were  satisfied  with  "  wishing  each  other  dead  with 
all  their  hearts  ";  and  there  seemed  little  doubt  of 
the  sincerity  of  the  aspiration,  on  looking  at  their 
malignant  faces  ;  for  they  made  a  horrible  picture 
in  this  frame  of  mind. 

Now  it  happened  that  this  quarrel  took  place  on 
the  morning  of  St.  Mark  ;  a  saint  who  was  sup- 
posed on  that  festival  to  favor  his  votaries  with  a 
peep  into  the  book  of  fate.  For  it  was  the  popu- 
lar belief  in  those  days,  that,  if  a  person  should 
keep  watch  at  midnight  beside  the  church,  the  ap- 
paritions of  all  those  of  the  parish  who  were  to  be 
taken  by  death  before  the  next  anniversary  would 
be  seen  entering  the  porch.  The  yeoman,  like  his 
neighbors,  believed  most  devoutly  in  this  supersti- 
tion ;  and  in  the  very  moment  that  he  breathed 
the  unseemly  aspiration  aforesaid,  it  occurred  to 
him  that  the  eve  was  at  hand,  when,  by  observing 
the  rite  of  St.  Mark,  he  might  know  to  a  certainty 
7* 


154         A    STORY  OF  ST.  MARK'S  EVE. 

whether  this  unchristian  wish  was  to  be  one  of 
those  that  bear  fruit.  Accordingly,  a  little  before 
midnight,  he  stole  quietly  out  of  the  house,  and 
set  forth  on  his  way  to  the  church. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  dame  called  to  mind  the 
same  ceremonial ;  and,  having  the  like  motive  for 
curiosity  with  her  husband,  she  also  put  on  her 
cloak  and  calash,  and  set  out,  though  by  a  different 
path,  on  the  same  errand. 

The  night  of  the  Saint  was  as  dark  and  chill  as 
the  mysteries  he  was  supposed  to  reveal ;  the  moon 
throwing  but  a  short  occasional  glance,  as  sluggish 
masses  of  cloud  were  driven  slowly  from  her  face. 
Thus  it  fell  out  that  our  two  adventurers  were 
quite  unconscious  of  being  in  company,  till  a  sud- 
den glimpse  of  moonlight  showed  them  to  each 
other,  only  a  few  yards  apart.  Both,  through  a 
natural  panic,  became  pale  as  ghosts  ;  and  both 
made  eagerly  toward  the  church  porch.  Much 
as  they  had  wished  for  this  vision,  they  could  not 
help  quaking  and  stopping  on  the  spot,  as  if  turned 
to  stones  ;  and  in  this  position  the  dark  again  threw 
a  sudden  curtain  over  them,  and  they  disappeared 
from  each  other. 

The  two  came  to  one  conclusion  ;  each  conceiv- 
ing that  St.  Mark  had  marked  the  other  to  himself. 
With  this  comfortable  knowledge,  the  widow  and 
widower  elect  hied  home  again  by  the  roads  they 
came  ;  and  as  their  custom  was  to  sit  apart  after  a 
quarrel,  they  repaired  to  separate  chambers,  each 
ignorant  of  the  other's  excursion. 


A    STORY  OF  ST.  MARK'S  EVE.         155 

By  and  by,  being  called  to  supper,  instead  of 
sulking  as  aforetime,  they  came  down  together, 
each  being  secretly  in  the  best  humor,  though 
mutually  suspected  of  the  worst.  Amongst  other 
things  on  the  table,  there  was  a  calf's  sweetbread, 
being  one  of  those  very  dainties  that  had  often  set 
them  together  by  the  ears.  The  dame  looked  and 
longed,  but  she  refrained  from  its  appropriation, 
thinking  within  herself  that  she  could  give  up 
sweetbreads  for  one  year  ;  and  the  farmer  made  a 
similar  reflection.  After  pushing  the  dish  to  and 
fro  several  times,  by  a  common  impulse  they  di- 
vided the  treat ;  and  then,  having  supped,  they 
retired  amicably  to  rest,  whereas  until  then  they 
had  seldom  gone  to  bed  without  falling  out.  The 
truth  was,  each  looked  upon  the  other  as  being 
already  in  the  churchyard. 

On  the  morrow,  which  happened  to  be  the 
dame's  birthday,  the  farmer  was  the  first  to  wake  ; 
and  knowing  tvhat  he  kneiv,  and  having,  besides, 
but  just  roused  himself  out  of  a  dream  strictly 
confirmatory  of  the  late  vigil,  he  did  not  scruple 
to  salute  his  wife,  and  wish  her  many  happy  returns 
of  the  day.  The  wife,  who  knew  as  much  as  he, 
very  readily  wished  him  the  same  ;  having,  in 
truth,  but  just  rubbed  out  of  her  eyes  the  pattern 
of  a  widow's  bonnet  that  had  been  submitted  to 
her  in  her  sleep.  She  took  care,  however,  at  din- 
ner to  give  the  fowl's  liver  to  the  doomed  man  ; 
considering;  that  when  he  was  dead  and  <jone  she 


156         A   STORY  OF  ST.  MARK'S  EVE. 

could  have  them,  if  she  pleased,  seven  days  in  the 
week  ;  and  the  farmer,  on  his  part,  took  care  to 
help  her  to  many  tidbits.  Their  feeling  toward 
each  other  was  that  of  an  impatient  host  with  re- 
gard to  an  unwelcome  guest,  showing  scarcely  a 
bare  civility  while  in  expectation  of  his  stay,  but 
overloading  him  with  hospitality  when  made  cer- 
tain of  his  departure. 

In  this  manner  they  went  on  for  some  six  months, 
without  any  addition  of  love  between  them,  and  as 
much  selfishness  as  ever,  yet  living  in  a  subservi- 
ence to  the  comforts  and  inclinations  of  each  other, 
sometimes  not  to  be  found  even  amongst  couples 
of  sincerer  affections.  There  were  as  many  causes 
for  quarrel  as  ever,  but  every  day  it  became  less 
worth  while  to  quarrel ;  so  letting  bygones  be  by- 
gones, they  were  indifferent  to  the  present,  and 
thought  only  of  the  future,  considering  each  other 
(to  adopt  a  common  phrase)  "  as  good  as  dead." 

Ten  months  wore  away,  and  the  farmer's  birth- 
day arrived  in  its  turn.  The  dame,  who  had  passed 
an  uncomfortable  night,  having  dreamed,  in  truth, 
that  she  did  not  much  like  herself  in  mourning, 
saluted  him  as  soon  as  the  day  dawned,  and,  with  a 
sigh,  wished  him  many  years  to  come.  The  farmer 
repaid  her  in  kind,  the  sigh  included  ;  his  own 
visions  having  been  of  the  painful  sort  ;  for  he 
dreamed  of  having  a  headache  from  wearing  a 

O  O 

black  hat-band,  and  the  malady  still  clung  to  him 
when  awake.  The  whole  morning  was  spent  in 


A    STORY  OF  ST.   MARK'S  EVE.         157 

silent  meditation  and  melancholy,  on  both  sides  ; 
and  when  dinner  came,  although  the  most  favorite 
dishes  were  upon  the  table,  they  qould  not  eat.  The 
farmer,  resting  his  elbows  upon  the  board,  with  his 
face  between  his  hands,  gazed  wistfully  on  his  wife. 
The  dame,  leaning  back  in  her  high  arm-chair, 
regarded  the  yeoman  quite  as  ruefully.  Their 
minds,  travelling  in  the  same  direction,  and  at  an 
equal  rate,  arrived  together  at  the  same  reflection ; 
but  the  farmer  was  the  first  to  give  it  utterance  : 
"  Thee'd  be  missed,  dame,  if  thee  were  to  die  !  " 
The  dame  started.  Although  she  had  nothing 
but  death  at  that  moment  before  her  eyes,  she  was 
far  from  dreaming  of  her  own  exit.  Recovering, 
however,  from  the  shock,  her  thoughts  flowed  into 

*  '  O 

their  old  channel,  and  she  rejoined  in   the   same 
spirit : 

"  I  wish,  master,  thee  may  live  so  long  as  I !  " 
The  farmer,  in  his  own  mind,  wished  to  live 
rather  longer  ;  for,  at  the  utmost,  he  considered  that 
his  wife's  bill  of  mortality  had  but  two  months 
to  run  ;  the  calculation  made  him  sorrowful ;  dur- 
ing the  last  few  months  she  had  consulted  his 
appetite,  bent  to  his  humor,  and  conformed  her 
own  inclinations  to  his,  in  a  manner  that  could 
never  be  supplied. 

His  wife,  from  being  at  first  useful  to  him,  had 
become  agreeable,  and  at  last  dear ;  and  as  he 
contemplated  her  approaching  fate,  he  could  not 
help  thinking  out  audibly,  "  that  he  should  be  a 


158         A    STORY  OF  ST.  MARK'S  EVE. 

lonesome  man  when  she  was  gone."  The  dame, 
this  time,  heard  the  survivorship  foreboded  with- 
out starting ;  but  she  marvelled  much  at  what  she 
thought  the  infatuation  of  a  doomed  man.  So 
perfect  was  her  faith  in  the  infallibility  of  St. 
Mark,  that  she  had  even  seen  the  symptoms  of 
mortal  disease,  as  palpable  as  plague-spots,  on  the 
devoted  yeoman.  Giving  his  body  up,  therefore, 
for  lost,  a  strong  sense  of  duty  persuaded  her  that 
it  was  imperative  on  her,  as  a  Christian,  to  warn 
the  unsuspecting  farmer  of  his  dissolution.  Ac- 
cordingly, with  a  solemnity  adapted  to  the  subject. 
a  tenderness  of  recent  growth,  and  a  memento  mori 
face,  she  broached  the  matter  in  the  following 
question  : 

"  Master,  how  bee'st  thee  ?  " 

"  As  hearty  as  a  buck,  dame ;  and  I  wish  thee 
the  like." 

A  dead  silence  ensued  ;  the  farmer  was  as  un- 
prepared as  ever.  There  is  a  great  fancy  for 
breaking  the  truth  by  dropping  it  gently  ;  an  ex- 
periment which  has  never  answered,  any  more 
than  with  iron-stone  china.  The  dame  felt  this  ; 
and,  thinking  it  better  to  throw  the  news  at  her 
husband  at  once,  she  told  him,  in  as  many  words, 
that  he  was  a  dead  man. 

It  was  now  the  yeoman's  turn  to  be  staggered. 
By  a  parallel  course  of  reasoning,  he  had  just 
wrought  himself  up  to  a  similar  disclosure,  and 
the  dame's  death-warrant  was  just  ready  upon  his 


A   STORY  OF  ST.  MARK'S  EVE.         159 

tongue,  when  he  met  with  his  own  despatch, 
signed,  sealed,  and  delivered.  Conscience  in- 

O  ' 

stantly  pointed  out  the  oracle  from  which  she 
had  derived  the  omen. 

"  Thee  hast  watched,  dame,  at  the  church 
porch,  then  ?  " 

"  Ay,  master.'' 

"  And  thee  didst  see  me  spirituously  ?  " 

"  In  the  brown  wrap,  with  the  boot  hose.  Thee 
were  coming  to  the  church,  by  Fairthorn  Gap  ;  in 
the  while  I  were  coming  by  the  Holly  Hedge." 

For  a  minute  the  farmer  paused ;  but  the  next 
he  burst  into  a  fit  of  uncontrollable  laughter ;  peal 
after  peal,  each  higher  than  the  last.  The  poor 
woman  had  but  one  explanation  for  this  phenome- 
non. She  thought  it  a  delirium  ;  a  lightening  be- 
fore death  ;  and  was  beginning  to  wring  her  hands, 
and  lament,  when  she  was  checked  by  the  merry 
yeoman  : 

"  Dame,  thee  bee'st  a  fool.  It  was  I  myself 
thee  seed  at  the  church  porch.  I  seed  thee,  too ; 
with  a  notice  to  quit  upon  thy  face  ;  but,  thanks  to 
God,  thee  bee'st  a  living ;  and  that  is  more  than  I 
cared  to  say  of  thee  this  day  ten-month  !  " 

The  dame  made  no  answer.  Her  heart  was  too 
full  to  speak ;  but,  throwing  her  arms  round  her 
husband,  she  showed  that  she  shared  in  his  senti- 
ment. And  from  that  hour,  by  practising  a  care- 
ful abstinence  from  offence,  or  a  temperate  suffer- 
ance of  its  appearance,  they  became  the  most 


160         A   STORY  OF  ST.  MARK'S  EVE. 

united  couple  in  the  county.  But  it  must  be 
said,  that  their  comfort  was  not  complete  till  they 
had  seen  each  other,  in  safety,  over  the  perilous 
anniversary  of  St.  Mark's  Eve. 


The  moral  this  story  conveys  is  one  which 
might  prove  a  useful  monitor  to  us  all,  if  we 
could  keep  it  in  daily  remembrance.  Few,  indeed, 
are  so  coarse  in  their  manifestations  of  ill-temper 
as  this  Kentish  couple  are  described  ;  but  we  all 
indulge,  more  or  less,  in  unreasonable  fretfulness, 
and  petty  acts  of  selfishness,  in  the  relations  of 
husband  and  wife,  parents  and  children,  brothers 
and  sisters,  —  in  fact,  in  all  the  relations  of  life. 
It  would  help  us  greatly  to  be  kind,  forbearing, 
and  self-sacrificing  toward  neighbors,  friends,  and 
relatives,  if  it  were  always  present  to  our  minds 
that  death  may  speedily  close  our  intercourse  with 
them  in  this  world.  —  L.  M.  C. 


WHAT   THE  OLD  WOMAN  SAID. 


ONE  summer  eve,  I  chanced  to  pass,  where,  by  the 
cottage  gate, 

An  aged  woman  in  the  town  sat  crooning  to  her  mate. 
The  frost  of  age  was  on  her  brow,  its  dimness  in  her 

eye, 

And  her  bent  figure  to  and  fro  rocked  all  unconsciously. 
The  frost  of  age  was  on  her  brow,  yet  garrulous  her 

tongue, 
As  she  compared  the  "  doings  now"  with  those  when 

she  was  young. 
"  When  /was  young,  young  gals  were  meek,  and  looked 

round  kind  of  shy  ; 
And  when  they  were  compelled  to  speak,  they  did  so 

modestly. 
They  stayed  at  home,  and  did  the  work ;  made  Indian 

bread  and  wheaten ; 
And  only  went  to  singing-school,  and  sometimes  to  night 

meetiu'. 
And  children  were  obedient  then ;  they  had  no  saucy 

airs  ; 
And  minded  what  their  mothers  said,  and  learned  their 

hymns  and  prayers. 

E 


162        WHAT  THE   OLD    WOMAN  SAID. 

But  now-a-days  they  know  enough,  before  they  know 

their  letters ; 
And  young  ones  that  can  hardly  Avalk  will  contradict 

their  betters. 
Young  women  now  go  kiting  round,  and  looking  out  for 

beaux ; 
And  scarcely  one  in  ten  is  found,  who  makes  or  mends 

her  clothes ! 

But  then,  I  tell  my  daughter, 
Folks  don't  do  as  they  'd  ought'-ter. 

When  /  was  young,  if  a  man  had  failed,  he  shut  up 

house  and  hall, 
And  never  ventured  out  till  night,  if  he  ventured  out  at 

all; 
And  his  wife  sold  all  her  china  plates ;  and  his  sons 

came  home  from  college ; 
And  his  gals  left  school,  and  learned  to  wash  and  bake. 

and  such  like  knowledge ; 
They  gave  up  cake  and   pumpkin-pies,  and   had   the 

plainest  eatin' ; 
And  never  asked  folks  home  to  tea,  and  scarcely  went 

to  meetin'. 
The  man   that  was  a  Bankrupt   called,  was   kind  'er 

shunned  by  men, 
And  hardly  dared  to  show  his  head  amongst  his  town 

folks  then. 
But  now-a-days,  when  a  merchant  fails,  they  say  he 

makes  a  penny ; 
The  wife  don't  have  a  gown  the  less,  and  his  daughters 

just  as  many; 
His  sons  they  smoke  their  choice  cigars,  and  drink  their 

costly  wine ; 


WHAT  THE   OLD   WOMAN  SAID.        163 

And  she  goes  to  the  opera,  and  he  has  folks  to  dine ! 
He  walks  the  streets,  he  drives  his  gig ;  men  show  him 

all  civilities ; 

And  what  in  my  day  we  called  debts,  are  now  his  /in- 
abilities ! 

They  call  the  man  unfortunate  who  ruins  half  the  city, — 
In  my  day  't  was  his  creditors  to  whom  we  gave  our  pity. 
But  then,  I  '11  tell  my  daughter, 
Folks  don't  do  as  they  'd  ough'-ter. 

FROM  THE  OLIVE  BKANCH. 


THE    SPRING    JOURNEY. 

0,  GREEN  was  the  corn  as  I  rode  on  my  way, 
And  bright  were  the  dews  on  the  blossoms  of  May, 
And  dark  was  the  sycamore's  shade  to  behold, 
And  the  oak's  tender  leaf  was  of  emerald  and  gold. 

The  thrush  from  his  holly,  the  lark  from  his  cloud, 
Their  chorus  of  rapture  sung  jovial  and  loud  ; 
From  the  soft  vernal  sky  to  the  soft  grassy  ground, 
There  was  beauty  above  me,  beneath,  and  around. 

The  mild  southern  breeze  brought  a  shower  from  the  hill, 

And  yet,  though  it  left  me  all  dripping  and  chill, 

I  felt  a  new  pleasure,  as  onward  I  sped, 

To  gaze  where  the  rainbow  gleamed  broad  overhead. 

0  such  be  life's  journey  !  and  such  be  our  skill 
To  lose  in  its  blessings  the  sense  of  its  ill ; 
Through  sunshine  and  shower  may  our  progress  be  even, 
And  our  tears  add  a  charm  to  the  prospect  of  heaven. 

BISHOP  HEBER. 


MORAL    H  INTS. 


BY  L.    MARIA    CHILD. 


'ROBABLY  there  are  no  two  things 
that  tend  so  much  to  make  human  be- 
ings unhappy  in  themselves  and  un- 
pleasant to  others,  as  habits  of  fretful- 
ness  and  despondency  ;  two  faults  peculiarly  apt 
to  grow  upon  people  after  they  have  passed  their 
youth.  Both  these  ought  to  be  resisted  with  con- 
stant vigilance,  as  we  would  resist  a  disease.  This 
we  should  do  for  our  own  sakes,  and  as  a  duty  we 
owe  to  others.  Life  is  made  utterly  disagreeable 
when  we  are  daily  obliged  to  listen  to  a  complain- 
ing house-mate.  How  annoying  and  disheartening 
are  such  remarks  as  these  :  "  I  was  not  invited  to 
the  party  last  night.  I  suppose  I  am  getting  to  be 
of  no  consequence  to  anybody  now."  "  Yes,  that 
is  a  beautiful  present  you  have  had  sent  you. 
Nobody  sends  me  presents."  "•  I  am  a  useless  en- 
cumbrance now.  I  can  see  that  people  want  me 
out  of  their  way."  Yet  such  observations  are  not 


MORAL  HINTS.  165 

unfrequently  heard  from  persons  surrounded  by 
external  comforts,  and  who  are  consequently  en- 
vied by  othei's  of  similar  disposition  in  less  favora- 
ble circumstances. 

No  virtue  has  been  so  much  recommended  to 
the  old  as  cheerfulness.  Colton  says  :  "  Cheer- 
fulness ought  to  be  the  viaticum  of  their  life  to  the 
old.  Age  without  cheerfulness  is  a  Lapland  win- 
ter without  a  sun." 

Montaigne  says :  "  The  most  manifest  sign  of 
wisdom  is  continued  cheerfulness." 

Dr.  Johnson  says :  "  The  habit  of  looking  on 
the  best  side  of  every  event  is  worth  more  than  a 
thousand  pounds  a  year." 

Tucker  says  :  "  The  point  of  aim  for  our  vigi- 
lance to  hold  in  view  is  to  dwell  upon  the  brightest 
parts  in  every,  prospect  ;  to  call  off  the  thoughts 
when  running  upon  disagreeable  objects,  and  strive 
to  be  pleased  with  the  present  circumstances  sur- 
rounding us." 

Southey  says,  in  one  of  his  letters  :  "  I  have 
told  you  of  the  Spaniard,  who  always  put  on  his 
spectacles  when  about  to  eat  cherries,  that  they 
might  look  bigger  and  more  tempting.  In  like 
manner,  I  make  the  most  of  my  enjoyments  ;  and 
though  I  do  not  cast  my  eyes  away  from  tny 
troubles,  I  pack  them  in  as  little  compass  as  I  can 
for  myself,  and  never  let  them  annoy  others." 

Perhaps  you  will  say  :  "  All  this  is  very  fine  talk 
for  people  who  are  naturally  cheerful.  But  I  am 


166  MORAL  HINTS. 

low-spirited  by  temperament ;  and  how  is  that  to 
be  helped  ?  "  In  the  first  place,  it  would  be  well 
to  ascertain  whether  what  you  call  being  naturally 
low-spirited  does  not  arise  from  the  infringement 
of  some  physical  law  ;  something  wrong  in  what 
you  eat  or  drink,  or  something  unhealthy  in  other 
personal  habits.  But  if  you  inherit  a  tendency  to- 
look  on  the  dark  side  of  things,  resolutely  call  in 
the  aid  of  your  reason  to  counteract  it.  Leigh 
Hunt  says :  "  If  you  are  melancholy  for  the  first 
time,  you  will  find,  upon  a  little  inquiry,  that 
others  have  been  melancholy  many  times,  and  yet 
are  cheerful  now.  If  you  have  been  melancholy 
many  times,  recollect  that  you  have  got  over  all 
those  times  ;  and  try  if  you  cannot  find  means  of 
getting  over  them  better." 

If  reason  will  not  afford  sufficient  help,  call  in 
the  aid  of  conscience.  In  this  world  of  sorrow  and 
disappointment,  every  human  being  has  trouble 
enough  of  his  own.  It  is  unkind  to  add  the  weight 
of  your  despondency  to  the  burdens  of  another, 
who,  if  you  knew  all  his  secrets,  you  might  find 
had  a  heavier  load  than  yours  to  carry.  You  find 
yourself  refreshed  by  the  presence  of  cheerful 
people.  "Why  not  make  earnest  efforts  to  confer 
that  pleasure  on  others  ?  You  will  find  half  the 
battle  is  gained,  if  you  never  allow  yourself  to  say 
anything  gloomy.  If  you  habitually  try  to  pack 
your  troubles  away  out  of  other  people's  sight,  you 
will  be  in  a  fair  way  to  forget  them  yourself;  first, 


MORAL  HINTS.  167 

because  evils  become  exaggerated  to  the  imagina- 
tion by  repetition  ;  and,  secondly,  because  an  effort 
made  for  the  happiness  of  others  lifts  us  above 
ourselves. 

Those  who  are  conscious  of  a  tendency  to  dejec- 
tion should  also  increase  as  much  as  possible  the 
circle  of  simple  and  healthy  enjoyments.  They 
should  cultivate  music  and  flowers,  take  walks  to 
look  at  beautiful  sunsets,  read  entertaining  books, 
and  avail  themselves  of  any  agreeable  social  in- 
tercourse within  their  reach.  They  should  also 
endeavor  to  surround  themselves  with  pleasant 
external  objects. 

Our  states  of  feeling,  and  even  our  characters, 
are  influenced  by  the  things  we  habitually  look 
upon  or  listen  to.  A  sweet  singer  in  a  household, 
or  a  musical  instrument  played  with  feeling,  do 
more  than  afford  us  mere  sensuous  pleasure ;  they 
help  us  morally,  by  their  tendency  to  harmonize 
discordant  moods.  Pictures  of  pleasant  scenes,  or 
innocent  objects,  are,  for  similar  reasons,  desirable 
in  the  rooms  we  inhabit.  Even  the  paper  on  the 
walls  may  help  somewhat  to  drive  away  "  blue 
devils,"  if  ornamented  with  graceful  patterns,  that 
light  up  cheerfully.  The  paper  on  the  parlor  of 
Linna3us  represented  beautiful  flowering  plants 
from  the  East  and  West  Indies  ;  and  on  the  walls 
of  his  bedroom  were  delineated  a  great  variety  of 
butterflies,  dragon-flies,  and  other  brilliant  insects. 
Doubtless  it  contributed  not  a  little  to  the  happi- 


168  MORAL  HINTS. 

ness  of  the  great  naturalist  thus  to  live  in  the 
midst  of  his  pictured  thoughts.  To  cultivate  flow- 
ers, to  arrange  them  in  pretty  vases,  to  observe 
their  beauties  of  form  and  color,  has  a  healthy 
effect,  both  on  mind  and  body.  Some  temper- 
aments are  more  susceptible  than  others  to  these 
fine  influences,  but  they  are  not  entirely  without 
effect  on  any  human  soul  ;  and  forms  of  beauty 
can  now  be  obtained  with  so  little  expenditure 
of  money,  that  few  need  to  be  entirely  destitute  of 
them. 

Perhaps  you  will  say,  "  If  I  feel  low-spirited, 
even  if  I  do  not  speak  of  it,  I  cannot  help  showing 
it."  The  best  way  to  avoid  the  intrusion  of  sad 
feelings  is  to  immerse  yourself  in  some  occupation. 
Adam  Clarke  said  :  "  I  have  lived  to  know  that 
the  secret  of  happiness  is  never  to  allow  your 
energies  to  stagnate."  If  you  are  so  unfortunate 
as  to  have  nothing  to  do  at  home,  then,  the  mo- 
ment you  begin  to  feel  a  tendency  to  depression, 
start  forth  for  the  homes  of  others.  Tidy  up  the 
room  of  some  helpless  person,  who  has  nobody  to 
wait  upon  her  ;  carry  flowers  to  some  invalid,  or 
read  to  some  lonely  old  body.  If  you  are  a  man, 
saw  and  split  wood  for  some  poor  widow,  or  lone 
woman,  in  the  neighborhood.  If  you  are  a  woman, 
knit  stockings  for  poor  children,  or  mend  caps  for 
those  whose  eyesight  is  failing  ;  and  when  you 
have  done  them,  don't  send  them  home,  but  take 
them  yourself.  Merely  to  have  every  hour  of  life 


MORAL  HINTS.  169 

fully  occupied  is  a  great  blessing  ;  but  the  full 
benefit  of  constant  employment  cannot  be  expe- 
rienced unless  \ve  are  occupied  in  a  way  that  pro- 
motes the  good  of  others,  while  it  exercises  our 
own  bodies  and  employs  our  own  minds.  Plato 
went  so  far  as  to  call  exercise  a  cure  for  a  wounded 
conscience  ;  and,  provided  usefulness  is  combined 
with  it,  there  is  certainly  a  good  deal  of  truth  in 
the  assertion  ;  inasmuch  as  constant  helpful  activity 
leaves  the  mind  no  leisure  to  brood  over  useless 
regrets,  and  by  thus  covering  the  wound  from  the 
corrosion  of  thought,  helps  it  to  become  a  scar. 

Against  that  listless  indifference,  which  the 
French  call  ennui,  industry  is  even  a  better  pre- 
servative than  it  is  against  vain  regrets.  There- 
fore, it  seems  to  me  unwise  for  people  in  the 
decline  of  life  to  quit  entirely  their  customary 
occupations  and  pursuits.  The  happiest  specimens 
of  old  age  are  those  men  and  women  who  have 
been  busy  to  the  last ;  and  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  the  decay  of  our  powers,  both  bodily  arid 
mental,  is  much  hindered  by  their  constant  exer- 
cise, provided  it  be  not  excessive. 

It  is  recorded  of  Michael  Ano-elo,  that  "  after  he 

~  ' 

was  sixty  years  old,  though  not  very  robust,  he 
would  cut  away  as  many  scales  from  a  block  of 
very  hard  marble,  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  as  three 
young  sculptors  would  have  effected  in  three  or 
four  hours.  Such  was  the  impetuosity  and  fire 
with  which  he  pursued  his  labors,  that  with  a  single 


170  MORAL  HINTS. 

stroke  he  brought  down  fragments  three  or  four 
fingers  thick,  and  so  close  upon  his  mark,  that  had 
he  passed  it,  even  in  the  slightest  degree,  there 
would  have  been  danger  of  ruining  the  whole." 
From  the  time  he  was  seventy-one  years  old  till  he 
was  seventy-five,  he  was  employed  in  painting  the 
Pauline  Chapel.  It  was  done  in  fresco,  which  is 
exceedingly  laborious,  and  he  confessed  that  it 
fatigued  him  greatly.  He  was  seventy-three  years 
old  when  he  was  appointed  architect  of  the  won- 
derful church  of  St.  Peter's,  at  Rome  ;  upon  which 
he  expended  the  vast  powers  of  his  mind  during 
seventeen  years.  He  persisted  in  refusing  com- 
pensation, and  labored  solely  for  the  honor  of  his 
country  and  his  church.  In  his  eighty-seventh 
year,  some  envious  detractors  raised  a  report  that 
he  had  fallen  into  dotage  ;  but  he  triumphantly 
refuted  the  charge,  by  producing  a  very  beautiful 
model  of  St.  Peter's,  planned  by  his  own  mind, 
and  in  a  great  measure  executed  by  his  own  hand. 
He  was  eighty-three,  when  his  faithful  old  servant 
Urbino,  who  had  lived  with  him  twenty-six  years, 
sickened  and  died.  Michael  Angelo,  notwith- 
standing his  great  age,  and  the  arduous  labors  of 
superintending  the  mighty  structure  of  St.  Peter's, 
and  planning  new  fortifications  for  Rome,  under- 
took the  charge  of  nursing  him.  He  even  watched 
over  him  through  the  night  ;  sleeping  by  his  side, 
without  undressing.  This  remarkable  man  lived 
ninety  years,  lacking  a  fortnight.  He  wrote  many 


MORAL  HINTS.  171 

beautiful  sonnets  during  his  last  years,  and  con- 
tinued to  make  drawings,  plans,  and  models,  to  the 
day  of  his  death,  though  infirmities  increased  upon 
him,  and  his  memory  failed. 

Handel  lived  to  be  seventy-five  years  old,  and 
though  afflicted  with  blindness  in  his  last  years,  he 
continued  to  produce  oratorios  and  anthems.  He 
superintended  music  in  the  orchestra  only  a  week 
before  he  died.  Haydn  was  sixty-five  years  old, . 
when  he  composed  his  oratorio  of  The  Creation, 
the  music  of  which  is  as  bright  as  the  morning 
sunshine.  When  he  was  seventy-seven  years  old, 
he  went  to  a  great  concert  to  hear  it  performed. 
It  affected  him  deeply  to  have  his  old  inspirations 
thus  recalled  to  mind.  When  they  came  to  the 
passage,  •'  It  was  light !  "  he  was  so  overpowered 
by  the  harmonies,  that  he  burst  into  tears,  and, 
pointing  upwards,  exclaimed  :  ;t  Xot  from  me  !  Not 
from  me  !  but  thence  did  all  this  come  !  " 

Linnaeus  was  past  sixty-two  years  old  when  he 
built  a  museum  at  his  country-seat,  where  he  clas- 
sified and  arranged  a  great  number  of  plants, 
zoophytes,  shells,  insects,  and  minerals.  Besides 
this,,  he  superintended  the  Royal  Gardens,  zeal- 
ously pursued  his  scientific  researches,  corre- 
sponded by  letter  with  many  learned  men,  taught 
pupils,  and  lectured  constantly  in  the  Academic 
Gardens.  His  pupils  travelled  to  all  parts  of  the 
world,  and  sent  him  new  plants  and  minerals  to 
examine  and  classify.  In  the  midst  of  this  con- 


172  MORAL  HINTS. 

stant  occupation,  he  wrote :  "  I  tell  the  truth 
when  I  say  that  I  am  happier  than  the  King  of 
Persia.  My  pupils  send  me  treasures  from  the 
East  and  the  West ;  treasures  more  precious  to 
me  than  Babylonish  garments  or  Chinese  vases. 
Here  in  the  Academic  Gardens  is  my  Elysium. 
Here  I  learn  and  teach  ;  here  I  admire,  and  point 
out  to  others,  the  wisdom  of  the  Great  Artificer, 
manifested  in  the  structure  of  His  wondrous 
works."  It  is  said  that  even  when  he  was  quite 
ill,  the  arrival  of  an  unknown  plant  would  infuse 
new  life  into  him.  He  continued  to  lahor  with 
unremitting  diligence  till  he  was  sixty-seven  years 
old,  when  a  fit  of  apoplexy  attacked  him  in  the 
midst  of  a  public  lecture,  and  so  far  impaired  his 
memory  that  he  became  unable  to  teach. 

The  celebrated  Alexander  von  Humboldt  lived 
ninety  years,  and  continued  to  pursue  his  scientific 
researches  and  to  publish  learned  books  up  to  the 
very  year  of  his  departure  from  this  world. 

The  Rev.  John  Wesley  continued  to  preach  and 
write  till  his  body  was  fairly  worn  out.  Southey, 
his  biographer,  says :  "  When  you  met  him  in  the 
street  of  a  crowded  city,  he  attracted  notice,  not 
only  by  his  band  and  cassock,  and  his  long  hair, 
white  and  bright  as  silver,  but  by  his  pace  and 
manner,  both  indicating  that  all  his  minutes  were 
numbered,  and  that  not  one  was  to  be  lost." 
Wesley  himself  wrote  :  "  Though  I  arn  always  in 
haste,  I  am  never  in  a  hurry  ;  because  I  never 


MORAL   HINTS.  173 

undertake  more  work  than  I  can  go  through  with 
perfect  calmness  of  spirit."  Upon  completing  his 
eighty-second  year,  he  wrote  :  "  It  is  now  eleven 
years  since  I  have  felt  any  such  thing  as  weariness. 
Many  times  I  speak  till  my  voice  fails  me,  and  I 
can  speak  no  longer.  Frequently  I  walk  till  my 
strength  fails,  and  I  can  walk  no  farther.  Yet 

~  ' 

even  then  I  feel  no  sensation  of  weariness,  but  am 
perfectly  easy  from  head  to  foot.  I  dare  not  im- 
pute this  to  natural  causes.  It  is  the  will  of  God." 
A  year  later,  he  wrote  :  "  I  am  a  wonder  to 
myself.  Such  is  the  goodness  of  God,  that  I  am 
never  tired,  either  with  writing,  pi'eaching,  or 
travelling." 

Isaac  T.  Hopper,  who  lived  to  be  past  eighty, 
was  actively  employed  in  helping  fugitive  slaves, 
and  travelling  about  to  exercise  a  kindly  and  be- 
neficent influence  in  prisons,  until  a  very  short 
time  before  his  death.  When  he  was  compelled  to 
take  to  his  bed,  he  said  to  me  :  "  I  am  ready  and 
willing  to  go,  only  there  is  so  much  that  I  want 
to  do." 

Some  will  say  it  is  not  in  their  power  to  do  such 
things  as  these  men  did.  That  may  be.  But  there 
is  something  that  everybody  can  do.  Those  whose 
early  habits  render  it  difficult,  or  impossible,  to 
learn  a  new  science,  or  a  new  language,  in  the 
afternoon  of  life,  can  at  least  oil  the  hinges  of  mem- 
ory by  learning  hymns,  chapters,  ballads,  and  sto- 
ries, wherewith  to  console  and  amuse  themselves 


174  MORAL   HINTS. 

and  others.  A  stock  of  nursery  rhymes  to  amuse 
little  children  is  far  from  being  a  foolish  or  worth- 
less acquisition,  since  it  enables  one  to  impart 
delight  to  the  little  souls, 

"  With  their  wonder  so  intense, 
And  their  small  experience." 

Women  undoubtedly  have  the  advantage  of  men, 
in  those  in-dpor  occupations  best  suited  to  the  in- 
firm ;  for  there  is  no  end  to  the  shoes  that  may  be 
knit  for  the  babies  of  relatives,  the  tidies  that  may 
be  crocheted  for  the  parlors  of  friends,  and  the 
socks  that  may  be  knit  for  the  poor.  But  men  also 
can  find  employment  for  tedious  hours,  when  the 
period  of  youthful  activity  has  passed.  In  sum- 
mer, gardening  is  a  never-failing  resource  both  to 
men  and  women  ;  and  genial  qualities  of  character 
are  developed  by  imparting  to  others  the  flowers, 
fruit,  and  vegetables  we  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
raising.  The  Rev.  Dr.  Prince  of  Salem  was  al- 
ways busy,  in  his  old  age,  making  telescopes, 
kaleidoscopes,  and  a  variety  of  toys  for  scientific 
illustrations,  with  which  he  instructed  and  enter- 
tained the  young  people  who  visited  him.  My  old 
father  amused  himself,  and  benefited  others,  by 
making  bird-houses  for  children,  and  clothes-horses 
and  towel-stands  for  all  the  girls  of  his  acquaint- 
ance who  were  going  to  housekeeping.  I  knew 
an  old  blind  man,  who  passed  his  winter  evenings 
pleasantly  weaving  mats  from  corn-husks,  while 


MORAL  HINTS.  175 

another  old  man  read  to  him.  A  lathe  is  a  val- 
uable resource  for  elderly  people  ;  and  this  em- 
ployment for  mind  and  hands  may  also  exercise 
the  moral  qualities,  as  it  admits  of  affording  pleas- 
ure to  family  and  friends  by  innumerable  neatly- 
turned  little  articles.  The  value  of  occupation  is 
threefold  to  elderly  people,  if  usefulness  is  combined 
with  exercise  ;  for  in  that  way  the  machinery  of 
body,  mind,  and  heart  may  all  be  kept  from 
rusting. 

A  sister  of  the  celebrated  John  Wilkes,  a  wise 
and  kindly  old  ladv,  who  resided  in  Boston  a  very 
long  time  ago,  was  accustomed  to  say,  "  The  true 
secret  of  happiness  is  always  to  have  a  little  less 
time  than  one  wants,  and  a  little  more  money  than 
one  needs."  There  is  much  wisdom  in  the  saying, 
but  I  think  it  might  be  improved  by  adding,  that 
the  money  should  be  of  one's  own  earning. 

After  life  has  passed  its  maturity,  great  care 
should  be  taken  not  to  become  indifferent  to  the 
affairs  of  the  world.  It  is  salutary,  both  for  mind 
and  heart,  to  take  an  interest  in  some  of  the  great 
questions  of  the  age  ;  whether  it  be  slavery  or  war, 
or  intemperance,  or  the  elevation  of  women,  or 
righting  the  wrongs  of  the  Indians,  or  the  progress 
of  education,  or  the  regulation  of  prisons,  or  im- 
provements in  architecture,  or  investigation  into 
the  natural  sciences,  from  which  proceed  results  so 
important  to  the  daily  comfort  and  occupations  of 
mankind.  It  is  for  each  one  to  choose  his  object  of 


176  MORAL   HINTS. 

especial  interest ;  but  it  should  be  remembered  that 
no  person  has  a  right  to  be  entirely  indifferent  con- 
cerning questions  involving  great  moral  principles. 
Care  should  be  taken  that  the  daily  social  influence 
which  every  man  and  woman  exerts,  more  or  less, 
should  be  employed  in  the  right  direction.  A  con- 
scientious man  feels  himself  in  some  degree  respon- 
sible for  the  evil  he  does  not  seek  to  prevent.  In 
the  Rev.  John  Wesley's  journal  for  self-examina- 
tion this  suggestive  question  occurs :  "  Have  I 
embraced  every  probable  opportunity  of  doing 
good,  and  of  preventing,  removing,  or  lessening 
evil  ?  "  Such  habits  of  mind  tend  greatly  to  the 
improvement  of  our  own  characters,  while  at  the 
same  time  they  may  help  to  improve  the  character 
and  condition  of  others.  Nothing  is  more  healthy 
for  the  soul  than  to  go  out  of  ourselves,  and  stay 
out  of  ourselves.  We  thus  avoid  brooding  over 

O 

our  own  bodily  pains,  our  mental  deficiencies,  or 
past  moral  shortcomings  ;  we  forget  to  notice 
whether  others  neglect  us,  or  not  ;  whether  they 
duly  appreciate  us,  or  not ;  whether  their  advan- 
tages are  superior  to  ours,  or  not.  He  who  leads 
a  true,  active,  and  useful  life  has  no  time  for 
such  corrosive  thoughts.  All  self-consciousness 

~ 

indicates  disease.  We  never  think  about  our 
stomachs  till  we  have  dyspepsia.  The  moral  dis- 
eases which  induce  self-consciousness  are  worse 
than  the  physical,  both  in  their  origin  and  their 
results.  To  indulge  in  repinings  over  our  own 


MORAL  HINTS.  177 

deficiencies,  compared  with  others,  while  it  indi- 
cates the  baneful  presence  of  envy,  prevents  our 
making  the  best  use  of  such  endowments  as  we 
have.  If  we  are  conscious  of  our  merits,  bodily  or 
mental,  it  takes  away  half  their  value.  There  is 
selfishness  even  in  anxiety  whether  we  shall  go  to 
heaven  or  not,  or  whether  our  souls  are  immortal 
or  not.  A  continual  preparation  for  eternal  pro- 
gress is  the  wisest  and  the  happiest  way  to  live  here. 
If  we  daily  strive  to  make  ourselves  tit  companions 
for  angels,  wre  shall  be  in  constant  readiness  for  a 

C5  * 

better  world,  while  we  make  sure  of  enjoying  some 
degree  of  heaven  upon  this  earth  ;  and,  what  is  still 
better,  of  helping  to  make  it  a  paradise  for  others. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  error  of  human  nature  pro- 
ductive of  so  much  unhappiness  as  the  indulgence 
of  temper.  Often  everything  in  a  household  is 
made  to  go  wrong  through  the  entire  day,  because 
one  member  of  the  family  rises  in  a  fretful  mood. 
An  oiitburst  of  anger  brings  a  cloud  of  gloom  over 
the  domestic  atmosphere,  which  is  not  easily  dissi- 
pated. Strenuous  efforts  should  be  made  to  guard 
against  this,  especially  by  the  old  ;  who,  as  they 
lose  external  attractions,  should  strive  all  the  more 
earnestly  to  attain  that  internal  beauty  which  is  of 
infinitely  more  value.  And  here,  again,  the  ques- 
tion may  be  asked,  "  What  am  I  to  do,  if  I  have 
naturally  a  hasty  or  fretful  temper,  and  if  those 
around  me  act  in  a  manner  to  provoke  it?"  In 
the  first  place,  strong  self-constraint  may  be  made 

8*  L 


178  MORAL  HINTS. 

to  become  a  habit ;  and  this,  though  very  difficult 
in.  many  cases,  is  possible  to  all.  People  of  the 
most  ungoverned  tempers  will  often  become  sud- 
denly calm  and  courteous  when  a  stranger  enters  ; 
and  they  can  control  their  habitual  outbreaks,  when 
they  are  before  people  whose  good  opinion  they  are 
particularly  desirous  to  obtain  or  preserve.  Con- 
straint may  be  made  more  easy  by  leaving  the 
presence  of  those  with  whom  you  are  tempted  to 
jangle.  Go  out  into  the  open  air  ;  feed  animals  ; 
gather  flowers  or  fruit  for  the  very  person  you 
were  tempted  to  annoy.  By  thus  opening  a  door 
for  devils  to  walk  out  of  your  soul,  angels  will  be 
sure  to  walk  in.  If  circumstances  prevent  your 
doing  anything  of  this  kind,  you  can  retire  to  your 
own  chamber  for  a  while,  and  there  wrestle  for  vic- 
tory over  your  evil  mood.  If  necessary  avocations 
render  this  impossible,  time  can  at  least  be  snatched 
for  a  brief  and  earnest  prayer  for  help  in  overcom- 
ing your  besetting  sin  ;  and  prayer  is  a  golden 
gate,  through  which  angels  are  wont  to  enter. 

"  And  the  lady  prayed  in  heaviness, 

That  looked  not  for  relief ; 

But  slowly  did  her  succor  come, 

And  a  patience  to  her  grief. 

"  0,  there  is  never  sorrow  of  heart 

That  shall  lack  a  timely  end, 
If  but  to  God  we  turn  and  ask 
Of  Him  to  be  our  friend." 

There  is  a  reason  for  governing  our  tempers  which 


MORAL  HINTS.  179 

is  still  more  important  than  our  own  happiness,  or 
even  the  happiness  of  others.  I  allude  to  its  in- 
fluence on  the  characters  of  those  around  us  ;  an 
influence  which  may  mar  their  whole  destiny  here, 
and  perhaps  hinder  their  progress  hereafter.  None 
of  us  are  sufficiently  careful  to  keep  pure  and 
wholesome  the  spiritual  atmosphere  which  sur- 
rounds every  human  being,  and  which  must  be 
more  or  less  inhaled  by  the  spiritual  lungs  of  all 
those  with  whom  he  enters  into  the  various  rela- 
tions of  life.  Jean  Paul  said :  "  Newton,  who 
uncovered  his  head  whenever  the  name  of  God 
was  pronounced,  thus  became,  without  words,  a 
teacher  of  religion  to  children."  Many  a  girl  has 
formed  an  injudicious  marriage,  in  consequence  of 
hearing  sneering  remarks,  or  vulgar  jokes,  about 
"  old  maids."  Poisonous  prejudices  against  na- 
tions, races,  sects,  and  classes  are  often  instilled 
by  thoughtless  incidental  expressions.  There  is 
education  for  evil  in  the  very  words  "  Nigger," 
"  Paddy,"  "  old  Jew,"  "  old  maid,"  &c.  It  is  re- 
corded of  the  Rabbi  Sera,  that  when  he  was  asked 
how  he  had  attained  to  such  a  serene  and  lovable 
old  age,  he  replied  :  "  I  have  never  rejoiced  at  any 
evil  which  happened  to  my  neighbor  ;  and  I  never 
called  any  man  by  a  nickname  given  to  him  in 
derision  or  sport." 

False  ideas  with  regard  to  the  importance  of 
wealth  and  rank  are  very  generally,  though  often 
unconsciously  inculcated  by  modes  of  speech,  or 


180  MORAL  HINTS. 

habits  of  action.  To  treat  mere  wealth  with 
more  respect  than  honest  poverty  ;  to  speak  more 
deferentially  of  a  man  whose  only  claim  is  a  dis- 
tinguished ancestry,  than  you  do  of  the  faithful 
laborer  who  ditches  your  meadows,  is  a  slow  but 
sure  process  of  education,  which  sermons  and  cate- 
chisms will  never  be  able  entirely  to  undo.  It  is 
important  to  realize  fully  that  all  merely  conven- 
tional distinctions  are  false  and  illusory  ;  that  only 
worth  and  usefulness  can  really  ennoble  man  or 
woman.  If  we  look  at  the  subject  from  a  rational 
point  of  view,  the  artificial  classifications  of  society 
appear  even  in  a  ludicrous  light.  It  would  be 
considered  a  shocking  violation  of  etiquette  for 
the  baronet's  lady  to  call  upon  the  queen.  The 
wife  of  the  wealthy  banker,  or  merchant,  cannot 
be  admitted  to  the  baronet's  social  circle.  The 
intelligent  mechanic  and  prosperous  farmer  is  ex- 
cluded from  the  merchant's  parlor.  The  farmer 
and  mechanic  would  think  they  let  themselves 
down  by  inviting  a  worthy  day-laborer  to  their 
parties.  And  the  day-laborer,  though  he  were  an 
ignoramus  and  a  drunkard,  would  feel  authorized 
to  treat  with  contempt  any  intelligent  and  excel- 
lent man  whose  complexion  happened  to  be  black 
or  brown.  I  once  knew  a  grocer's  wife,  who,  with 
infinite  condescension  of  manner,  said  to  the  wife 
of  her  neighbor  the  cobbler,  "  Why  don't  you 
come  in  to  see  me  sometimes  ?  You  need  n't 
keep  away  because  my  house  is  carpeted  all  over." 


MORAL  HINTS.  181 

Hannah  More  tells  us  that  the  Duchess  of  Glouces- 
ter, wishing  to  circulate  some  tracts  and  verses, 
requested  one  of  her  ladies  in  waiting  to  stop  a 
woman  who  was  wheeling  a  barrow  of  oranges 
past  the  window,  and  ask  her  if  she  would  take 
some  ballads  to  sell.  "  No  indeed  !  "  replied  the 
orange-woman,  with  an  air  of  offended  dignity. 
"  I  don't  do  anything  so  mean  as  that.  I  don't 
even  sell  apples."  The  Duchess  was  much  amused 
by  her  ideas  of  rank  ;  but  they  were  in  fact  no 
more  absurd  than  her  own.  It  is  the  same  mean, 
selfish  spirit  which  manifests  itself  through  all 
these  gradations.  External  rank  belongs  to  the 
"  phantom  dynasties  ";  and  if  we  wish  our  chil- 
dren to  enjoy  sound  moral  health,  we  should  be 
careful  not  to  teach  any  deference  for  it,  either  in 
our  words  or  our  habits.  Mrs.  Gaskell,  in  her 
sketch  of  a  very  conservative  and  prejudiced  Eng- 
lish gentlewoman,  "  one  of  the  olden  time,"  gives 
a  lovely  touch  to  the  picture,  indicating  that  true 
natural  refinement  was  not  stifled  by  the  prejudices 
of  rank.  Lady  Ludlow  had,  with  patronizing 
kindness,  invited  several  of  her  social  inferiors  to 
tea.  Among  them  was  the  wife  of  a  rich  baker, 
who,  being  unaccustomed  to  the  etiquette  of  such 
company,  spread  a  silk  handkerchief  in  her  lap, 
when  she  took  a  piece  of  cake  ;  whereupon  some 
of  the  curate's  wives  began  to  titter,  in  order  to 
show  that  they  knew  polite  manners  better  than 
she  did.  Lady  Ludlow,  perceiving  this,  imme- 


182  MORAL   HINTS. 

diately  spread  her  own  'handkerchief  in  her  lap  ; 
and  when  the  baker's  wife' went  to  the  fireplace 
to  shake  out  her  crumbs,  my  lady  did  the  same. 
This  silent  rebuke  was  sufficient  to  prevent  any 
further  rudeness  to  the  unsophisticated  wife  of  the 
baker.  No  elaborate  rules  are  necessary  to  teach 
us  true  natural  politeness.  We  need  only  remem- 
ber two  short  texts  of  Scripture  :  "  Do  unto  others 
as  ye  would  that  they  should  do  unto  you." 
"  God  is  your  Father,  and  all  ye  are  brethren." 

Elderly  people  are  apt  to  think  that  their  years 
exempt  them  from  paying  so  much  attention  to 
good  manners  as  the  young  are  required  to  do. 
On  the  contrary,  they  ought  to  be  more  careful  in 
their  deportment  and  conversation,  because  their 
influence  is  greater.  Impure  words  or  stories 
repeated  by  parents  or  grandparents  may  make 
indelible  stains  on  the  minds  of  their  descendants, 
and  perhaps  give  a  sensual  direction  to  their  char- 
acters through  life.  No  story,  however  funny, 
should  ever  be  told,  if  it  will  leave  in  the  memory 
unclean  associations,  either  physically  or  morally. 

A  love  of  gossiping  about  other  people's  affairs 
is  apt  to  grow  upon  those  who  have  retired  from 
the  active  pursuits  of  life ;  and  this  is  one  among 
many  reasons  why  it  is  best  to  keep  constantly 
occupied.  A  great  deal  of  trouble  is  made  in 
neighborhoods,  from  no  malicious  motives,  but 
from  the  mere  excitement  of  telling  news,  and  the 
temporary  importance  derived  therefrom.  Most 


MORAL  HINTS.  183 

village  gossip,  when  sifted  down,  amounts  to  the 
little  school-o-irl's  definition.  Beino;  asked  what  it 

O  O 

was  to  bear  false  witness  against  thy  neighbor,  she 
replied  :  "  It 's  when  nobody  don't  do  nothing,  and 
somebody  goes  and  tells  of  it."  One  of  the  best 
and  most  genial  of  the  Boston  merchants,  when 
he  heard  people  discussing  themes  of  scandal,  was 
accustomed  to  interrupt  them,  by  saying  :  "  Don't 
talk  any  more  about  it !  Perhaps  they  did  n't  do 
it ;  and  may  be  they  could  n't  help  it."  For  my- 
self, I  deem  it  the  greatest  unkindness  to  be  told 
of  anything  said  against  me.  I  may  prevent  its 
exciting  resentment  in  my  mind  ;  but  the  con- 
sciousness of  not  being  liked  unavoidably  disturbs 
my  relations  with  the  person  implicated.  There 
is  no  better  safeguard  against  the  injurious  habit 
of  gossiping,  than  the  being  interested  in  princi- 
ples and  occupations  ;  if  you  have  these  to  employ 
your  mind,  you  will  have  no  inclination  to  talk 
about  matters  merely  personal. 

When  we  reflect  that  life  is  so  full  of  neglected 
little  opportunities  to  improve  ourselves  and  others, 
we  shall  feel  that  there  is  no  need  of  aspiring  after 
great  occasions  to  do  good. 

"  The  trivial  round,  the  common  task, 
Would  furnish  all  we  need  to  ask ; 
Room  to  deny  ourselves,  —  a  road 
To  bring  us  daily  nearer  God." 


THE     BOYS. 

WRITTEN   FOR  A  MEETING   OF  COLLEGE  CLASSMATES. 

BY  OLIVER    W.    HOLMES. 

HAS  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with  the  boys  ? 
If  there  has,  take  him  out,  without  making  a 

noise  ! 

Hang  the  Almanac's  cheat,  and  the  Catalogue's  spite  ! 
Old  Time  is  a  liar !    We  're  twenty  to-night. 

We  're  twenty  !    We  're  twenty  !    Who  says  we   are 

more  ? 

He  's  tipsy,  young  jackanapes  !  Show  him  the  door  ! 
"  Gray  temples  at  twenty  ?  "    Yes  !  white,  if  we  please  : 
Where  the  snow-flakes  fall   thickest,   there 's   nothing 

can  freeze. 

Was  it  snowing  I  spoke  of?    Excuse  the  mistake  ! 
Look  close,  —  you  will  see  not  a  sign  of  a  flake  ; 
We  want  some  new  garlands  for  those  we  have  shed, — 
And  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the  red. 

We  've  a  trick,  we  young  fellows,  you  may  have  been 

told, 

Of  talking  (in  public)  as  if  we  were  old  ;  — 
That  boy  we  call  "Doctor,"  and  this  we  call  "Judge";  — 
It 's  a  neat  little  fiction,  —  of  course,  it 's  all  fudge. 


THE  BOYS.  185 

That  fellow  's  "  the  Speaker,"  —  the  one  on  the  right ; 
"  Mr.  Mayor."  my  young  one,  how  are  you  to-night  ? 
That 's  our  "  Member  of  Congress,"  we  say  when  we 

chaff; 
There 's  the   '•  Eeverend  "   What 's  his  name  ?    Don't 

make  me  laugh  ! 


Yes,  we  're  boys,  —  always  playing  with  tongue  or  with 

pen,— 

And  I  sometimes  have  asked,  Shall  we  ever  be  men  ? 
Shall  we  always  be  youthful,  and  laughing  and  gay, 
Till  the  last  dear  companion  drops  smiling  away  ? 

Then  here  's  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and  its  gray ! 
The  stars  of  its  Winter,  the  dews  of  its  May ! 
And  when  we  have  done  with  our  life-lasting  toys, 
Dear  Father,  take  care  of  thy  children,  the  Boys ! 


ODE     OF     ANACREON. 

TRANSLATED    FROM     THE    GREEK. 

I  LOVE  a  mellow,  cheerful  sage, 
Whose  feelings  are  unchilled  by  age ; 
I  love  a  youth  who  dances  well 
To  music  of  the  sounding  shell ; 
But  when  a  man  of  years,  like  me, 
Joins  with  the  dancers  playfully, 
Though  age  in  silvery  hair  appears, 
His  heart  is  young,  despite  of  years. 


MYSTERIOUSNESS   OF    LIFE. 


FROM  MOUNTFORD'S  EUTHANASY. 


;BOUT  the  world  to  come,  it  ought  not 
to  be  as  though  we  did  not  know  surely, 
because  we  do  not  know  much.  From 
the  nearest  star,  our  earth,  if  it  is  seen, 
looks  hardly  anything  at  all.  It  shines,  or  rather 
it  twinkles,  and  that  is  all.  To  them  afar  off,  this 
earth  is  only  a  shining  point.  But  to  us  who  live 
in  it,  it  is  wide  and  various.  It  is  sea  and  land  ;  it 
is  Europe,  Asia,  Africa,  and  America  ;  it  is  the 
lair  of  the  lion,  and  the  pasture  of  the  ox,  and  the 
pathway  of  the  worm,  and  the  support  of  the  robin  ; 
it  is  what  has  day  and  night  in  it  ;  it  is  what  cus- 
toms and  languages  obtain  in  ;  it  is  many  coun- 
tries ;  it  is  the  habitation  of  a  thousand  million 
men  ;  and  it  is  our  home.  All  this  the  world  is 
to  us;  though,  looked  at  from  one  of  the  stars,  it  is 
only  a  something  that  twinkles  in  the  distance.  It 
is  seen  only  as  a  few  intermittent  rays  of  light  ; 
though,  to  us  who  live  in  it,  it  is  hill  and  valley, 


MYSTERIOUSNESS  OF  LIFE.  187 

and  land  and  water,  and  many  thousands  of  miles 
wide.  So  that  if  the  future  world  is  a  star  of 
guidance  for  us,  it  is  enough  ;  because  it  is  not  for 

O  '  O        ' 

us  to  know,  but  to  believe,  that  it  will  prove  our 
dear  home. 

We  live  mortal  lives  for  immortal  good.  And 
really  this  world  is  so  mysterious,  that  there  is  not 
one  of  its  commonest  ways  but  is  perhaps  sublimer 
to  walk  on  than  we  at  all  think.  At  night,  when 
we  walk  about  and  see  at  all,  it  is  by  the  light  of 
other  worlds  ;  though  we  do  not  often  tliink  of  this. 
It  is  the  same  in  life.  There  is  many  a  matter 
concerning  us  that  is  little  thought  of,  but  which  is 
ours,  as  it  were,  from  out  of  the  infinite.  Yes, 
our  lives  are  to  be  felt  as  being  very  great,  even  in 
their  nothingness.  Even  our  mortal  lives  are  as 
wonderful  as  immortality.  Is  the  next  life  a  mys- 
tery ?  So  it  is.  But  then  how  mysterious  even 
noiv  life  is.  Food  is  not  all  that  a  man  lives  by. 
There  is  some  way  by  which  food  has  to  turn  to 
strength  in  him  ;  and  that  way  is  something  else 
than  his  own  will.  I  am  hungry,  I  sit  down  to  a 
meal,  and  I  enjoy  it.  And  the  next  day,  from 
what  I  ate  and  drank  for  my  pleasure,  there  is 
blood  in  my  veins,  and  moisture  on  my  skin,  and 
new  flesh  making  in  all  my  limbs.  And  this  is 
not  my  doing  or  willing  ;  for  I  do  not  even  know 
how  my  nails  grow  from  under  the  skin  of  my 
fingers.  I  can  well  believe  in  my  being  to  live 


188  MYSTERIOUSNESS   OF  LIFE. 

hereafter.     How,. indeed,  I  am  to  live,  I  do  not 
know  ;  but,  then,  neither  do  I  know  how  I  do  live 
now.     When  I  am  asleep,  my  lungs  keep  breathing, 
my  heart  keeps  beating,  my  stomach  keeps  digest- 
ing,   and    my   whole   body   keeps   making   anew. 
And   in  the  morning,  when   I  look  in  the  glass, 
it  is  as  though  I  see  myself  a  new  creature  ;  and 
really,  for  the  wonder  of  it,  it  is  all  the  same  as 
though  another  body  had  grown  about  me  in  my 
sleep.     This  living  from  day  to  day  is  aston- 
ishing,   when    it    is    thought    of ;    and 
we   are  let  feel    the  miracle  of  it, 
so,   perhaps,   that    our    being 
to   live   again    may  not 
be    too   wonderful 
for  our  be- 
lief. 


THOUGH  there  be  storm  and  turbulence  on  this 
earth,  one  would  rise  but  little  way,  through  the 
blackened  air,  before  he  would  come  to  a  region 
of  calm  and  peace,  where  the  stars  shine  unob- 
structed, and  where  there  is  no  storm.  And  a 
little  above  our  cloud,  a  little  higher  than  our 
darkness,  a  little  beyond  our  storm,  is  God's  upper 
region  of  tranquil  peace  and  calm.  And  when 
we  have  had  the  discipline  of  winter  here,  it  will 
be  possible  for  us  to  have  eternal  summer  there. 

HKNUY  WARD  BEECHKR. 


EXTRACTS    FROM 

THE    GRANDMOTHER'S    APOLOGY. 

BY   ALFRED    TENNYSON. 

AND  Willy,  my  eldest  born,  is  gone  you  say,  little 
Ann? 
Ruddy  and  white  and  strong  on  his  legs,  he  looks  like  a 

man. 
"  Here  's  a  leg  for  a  babe  of  a  week ! "  says  doctor ;  and 

he  would  be  bound 

There  was  not  his  like  that  yea?  in   twenty  parishes 
round. 

Strong  of  his  hands,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  but  still  of 

his  tongue ! 
I  ought  to  have  gone  before  him ;  I  wonder  he  went  so 

young. 

I  cannot  cry  for  him,  Annie  ;  I  have  not  long  to  stay  ; 
Perhaps  I  shall  see  him  the  sooner,  for  he  lived  far 

away. 

Why  do  you  look  at  me,  Annie  ?  you  think  I  am  hard 

and  cold ; 
But  all  my  children  have  gone  before  me,  I  am  so  old: 


190       THE   GRANDMOTHER'S  APOLOGY. 

I  cannot  weep  for  Willy,  nor  can  I  weep  for  the  rest ; 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the 
best. 

The  first  child  that  ever  I  bore  was  dead  before  he  was 

born  : 

Shadow  and  shine  is  life,  little  Annie,  flower  and  thorn. 
I  had  not  wept,  little  Annie,  not  since  I  had  been  a 

wife ; 
But  I  wept  like  a  child,  that  day ;   for  the  babe  had 

fought  for  his  life. 

His  dear  little  face  was  troubled,  as  if  with  anger  or 
pain ; 

I  looked  at  the  still  little  body,  —  his  trouble  had  all 
been  in  vain. 

For  Willy  I  cannot  weep ;  I  shall  see  him  another 
morn ; 

But  I  wept  like  a  child  for  the  child  tjiat  was  dead  be- 
fore he  was  born. 

But  he  cheered  me,  my  good  man,  for  he  seldom  said 

me  nay : 
Kind,  like  a  man,  was  he ;  like  a  man,  too,  would  have 

his  way ; 

Never  jealous,  —  not  he  :  we  had  many  a  happy  year : 
And  he  died,  and  I  could  not  weep,  —  my  own  time 

seemed  so  near. 

But  I  wished  it  had  been  God's  will  that  I,  too,  then 

could  have  died : 
I  began  to  be  tired  a  little,  and  fain  had  slept  at  his 

side ; 


THE   GRANDMOTHER'S  APOLOGY.       191 

And  that  was  ten  years  back,  or  more,  if  I  don't  for- 
get: 
But  as  for  the  children,  Annie,  they  are  all  about  me 

jet- 
Pattering  over  the  boards,  my  Annie,  who  left  me  at 

two ; 
Patter  she  goes,  my  own  little  Annie,  —  an  Annie  like 

you. 
Pattering  over  the  boards,  she  comes  and  goes  at  her 

will, 

While  Harry  is  in  the  five-acre  and  Charlie  ploughing 
the  hill. 

And  Harry  and  Charlie,  I  hear  them,  too,  —  they  sing 

to  their  team ; 
Often  they  come  to  the  door  in  a  pleasant  kind  of 

dream. 
They  come  and  sit  by  my  chair,  they  hover  about  my 

bed: 
I  am  not  always  certain  if  they  be  alive  or  dead. 

And  yet  I  know  for  a  truth,  there  's  none  of  them  left 

alive ; 

For  Harry  went  at  sixty,  your  father  at  sixty-five ; 
And  Willy,  my  eldest   born,  at  nigh   threescore  and 

ten ; 
I  knew  them  all  as  babies,  and  now  they  are  elderly 

men. 

For  mine  is  a  time  of  peace ;  it  is  not  often  I  grieve ; 
I  am  oftener  sitting  at  home  in  my  father's  farm  at 
eve; 


192       THE   GRANDMOTHER'S  APOLOGY. 

And  the  neighbors  come  and  laugh  and  gossip,  and  so 

do  I; 
I  find  myself  often  laughing  at  things  that  have  long 

gone  by. 

To  be  sure  the  preacher  says  our  sins  should  make  us 

sad ; 
But  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  and  there  is  grace  to  be 

had; 
And  God,  not  man,  is  the  Judge  of  us  all  when  life  shall 

cease ; 
And  in  this  Book,  little  Annie,  the  message  is  one  of 

peace. 

And  age  is  a  time  of  peace,  so  it  be  free  from  pain  ; 
And  happy  has  been  my  life,  but  I  would  not  live  it 

again. 

I  seem  to  be  tired  a  little,  that 's  all,  and  long  for  rest ; 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the 

best. 

So  Willy  has  gone,  —  my  beauty,  my  eldest  born,  my 

flower ; 
But  how  can  I  weep  for  Willy  ?  he  has  but  gone  for  an 

hour,  — 
Gone  for  a  minute,  my  son,  from  this  room  into  the 

next; 
I  too  shall  go  in  a  minute.     What  time  have  I  to  be 

vext? 


THE     ANCIENT     MAN. 


TRANSLATED  BY  L.  O.  FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  JEAN  PAUL  RICH- 
TER'S  MEMOIR  OF  FIBEL,  AUTHOR  OF  THE  BIENENRODA  SPELL- 
ING-BOOK. 

"  He  is  insensibly  suhdued 
To  settled  quiet.     He  is  one  by  whom 
All  effort  seems  forgotten  ;  one  to  whom 
Long  patience  hath  such  mild  composure  given, 
That  patience  now  doth  seem  a  tiling  of  which 
He  hath  no  need.     He  is  by  Nature  led 
To  peace  so  perfect,  that  the  young  behold 
With  envy  what  the  old  man  hardly  feels." 

WORDSWORTH. 

^  HE   stream    of  Fibel's   history  havino- 

'' 

vanished  under  ground,  like  a  second 
river  Rhone,  I  was  obliged  to  explore 
r-  where  story  or  stream  again  burst 
forth,  and  for  this  purpose  I  questioned  every  one. 
I  was  told  that  no  one  could  better  inform  me  than 
an  exceedingly  aged  man,  more  than  a  hundred 
and  twenty-five  years  old,  who  lived  a  few  miles 
from  the  village  of  Bienenroda,  and  who,  having 
been  young  at  the  same  time  with  Fibel,  must 

9  M 


194  THE  ANCIENT  MAN. 

know  all  about  him.  The  prospect  of  shaking 
hands  with  the  very  oldest  man  living  on  the  face 
of  the  earth  enraptured  me.  I  said  to  myself  that 
a  most  novel  and  peculiar  sensation  must  be  excited 
by  having  a  whole  past  century  before  you,  bodily 
present,  compact  and  alive,  in  the  century  now 
passing  ;  by  holding,  hand  to  hand,  a  man  of  the 
age  of  the  antediluvians,  over  whose  head  so  many 
entire  generations  of  young  mornings  and  old  even- 
ings have  fled,  and  before  whom  one  stands,  in  fact, 
as  neither  young  nor  old  ;  to  listen  to  a  human 
spirit,  outlandish,  behind  the  time,  almost  mysteri- 
ously awful  ;  sole  survivor  of  the  thousand  gray, 
cold  sleepers,  coevals  of  his  own  remote,  hoary 
age  ;  standing  as  sentinel  before  the  ancient  dead, 
looking  coldly  and  strangely  on  life's  silly  novel- 
ties ;  finding  in  the  present  no  cooling  for  his  in- 
born spirit-thirst,  no  more  enchanting  yesterdays 
or  to-morrows,  but  only  the  day-before-yesterday 
of  youth,  and  the  day-after-to-morrow  of  death. 
It  may  consequently  be  imagined  that  so  very  old 
a  man  would  speak  only  of  his  farthest  past,  of 
his  early  day-dawn,  which,  of  course,  in  the  long 
evening  of  his  protracted  day,  must  now  be  blend- 
ing with  his  midnight.  On  the  other  hand,  that 
one  like  myself  would  not  feel  particularly  younger 
before  such  a  millionnaire  of  hours,  as  the  Bienen- 
roda  Patriarch  must  be  ;  and  that  his  presence 
must  make  one  feel  more  conscious  of  death  than 
of  immortality.  A  very  aged  man  is  a  more  pow- 


THE  ANCIENT  MAN.  195 

erful  memento  than  a  grave  ;  for  the  older  a  grave 
is,  the  farther  we  look  back  to  the  succession  of 
young  persons  who  have  mouldered  in  it ;  some- 
times a  maiden  is  concealed  in  an  ancient  grave  ; 
but  an  ancient  dwindled  body  hides  only  an  im- 
prisoned spirit. 

An  opportunity  for  visiting  the  Patriarch  was 
presented  by  a  return  coach-and-six,  belonging  to 
a  count,  on  which  I  was  admitted  to  a  seat  with 
the  coachman.  Just  before  arriving  at  Bienen- 

O 

roda,  lie  pointed  with  his  whip  toward  an  orchard, 
tuneful  with  song,  and  said,  "  There  sits  the  old 
man  with  his  little  animals  around  him."  I  sprang 
from  the  noble  equipage  and  went  toward  him.  1 
ventured  to  expect  that  the  Count's  six  horses 
would  give  me,  before  the  old  man,  the  appear- 
ance of  a  person  of  rank,  apart  from  the  simpli- 
city of  my  dress,  whereby  princes  and  heroes  are 
wont  to  distinguish  themselves  from  their  tinselled 
lackeys.  I  was,  therefore,  a  little  surprised  that 
the  old  man  kept  on  playing  with  his  pet  hare, 
not  even  checking  the  barking  of  his  poodle,  as  if 
counts  were  his  daily  bread,  until,  at  last,  he  lifted 
his  oil-cloth  hat  from  his  head.  A  buttoned  over- 
coat, which  gave  room  to  see  his  vest,  a  long  pair 
of  knit  over-alls,  which  were,  in  fact,  enormous 
stockings,  and  a  neckerchief,  which  hung  down 
to  his  bosom,  made  his  dress  look  modern  enough. 
His  time-worn  frame  was  far  more  peculiar.  The 
inner  part  of  the  eye,  which  is  black  in  childhood, 


196  THE  ANCIENT  MAN. 

was  quite  white  ;  his  tallness,  more  than  his  years, 
seemed  to  bow  him  over  into  an  arch  ;  the  out- 
turned  point  of  his  chin  gave  to  his  speech  the 
appearance  of  mumbling  ;  yet  the  expression  of 
his  countenance  was  lively,  his  eyes  bright,  his 
jaws  full  of  white  teeth,  and  his  head  covered  with 
light  hair. 

I  began  by  saying :  "  I  came  here  solely  on  your 
account  to  see  a  man  for  whom  there  can  assuredly 
be  little  new  under  the  sun,  though  he  himself  is 
something  very  new  under  it.  You  are  now  strict- 
ly in  your  five  and  twenties  ;  a  man  in  your  best 
years ;  since  after  a  century  a  new  reckoning  com- 
mences. For  myself,  I  confess  that  after  once 
clambering  over  the  century  terminus,  or  church- 
wall  of  a  hundred  years,  I  should  neither  know 
how  old  I  was,  nor  whether  I  was  myself.  I 
should  begin  fresh  and  free,  just  as  the  world's 
history  has  often  done,  counting  again  from  the 
year  one,  in  the  middle  of  a  thousand  years.  Yet 
why  can  not  a  man  live  to  be  as  old  as  is  many  a 
giant  tree  of  India  still  standing  ?  It  is  well  to 
question  very  old  people  concerning  the  methods 
by  which  they  have  prolonged  their  lives.  How 
do  you  account  for  it,  dear  old  sir  ?  " 

I  was  beginning  to  be  vexed  at  the  good  man's 
silence,  when  he  softly  replied  :  "  Some  suppose  it 
is  because  I  have  always  been  cheerful  ;  because  I 
have  adopted  the  maxim,  '  Never  sad,  ever  glad  ' ; 
but  I  ascribe  it  wholly  to  our  dear  Lord  God  ;  since 


THE  ANCIENT  MAN.  197 

the  animals,  which  here  surround  us,  though  never 
sad,  but  happy  for  the  most  part,  by  no  means  so 
frequently  exceed  the  usual  boundary  of  their  life, 
as  does  man.  He  exhibits  an  image  of  the  eternal 
God,  even  in  the  length  of  his  duration." 

Such  words  concerning  God,  uttered  by  a  tongue 
one  hundred  and  twenty-five  years  old,  had  great 
weight  and  consolation  ;  and  I  at  once  felt  their 
beautiful  attraction.  On  mentioning  animals,  the 
old  man  turned  again  to  his  own  ;  and,  as  though 
indifferent  to  him  who  had  come  in  a  coach-and- 
six,  he  began  again  to  play  with  his  menagerie,  the 
hare,  the  spaniel,  the  silky  poodle,  the  starling,  and 
a  couple  of  turtle-doves  on  his  bosom  ;  a  pleasant 
bee-colony  in  the  orchard  also  gave  heed  to  him  ; 
with  one  whistle  he  sent  the  bees  away,  and  with 
another  summoned  them  into  the  ring  of  crea- 
tures, which  surrounded  him  like  a  court-circle. 

At  last,  he  said  :  "  No  one  need  be  surprised 
that  a  very  old  man,  who  has  forgotten  everything, 
and  whom  no  one  but  the  dear  God  knows  or  cares 
for,  should  give  himself  wholly  to  the  dear  ani- 
mals. To  whom  can  such  an  old  man  be  of  much 
use  ?  I  wander  about  in  the  villages,  as  in  cities, 
wholly  strange.  If  I  see  children,  they  come  be- 
fore me  like  my  own  remote  childhood.  If  I  meet 
old  men,  they  seem  like  my  past  hoary  years.  I 
do  not  quite  know  where  I  now  belong.  I  hang 
between  hea/en  and  earth.  Yet  God  ever  looks 
upon  me  bright  and  lovingly,  with  his  two  eyes, 


198  THE  ANCIENT  MAN. 

the  sun  and  the  moon.  Moreover,  animals  lead 
into  no  sin,  bat  rather  to  devotion.  When  my 
turtle-doves  brood  over  their  young  and  feed  them, 
it  seems  to  me  just  as  if  I  saw  God  himself  doing 
a  great  deal ;  for  they  derive  their  love  and  in- 
stinct toward  their  young,  as  a  gift  from  him." 

The  old  man  became  silent,  and  looked  pen- 
sively before  him,  as  was  his  wont.  A  ringing  of 
christening  bells  sounded  from  Bienenroda  among 
the  trees  in  the  garden.  He  wept  a  little.  I 
know  not  how  I  could  have  been  so  simple,  after 
the  beautiful  words  he  had  uttered,  as  to  have  mis- 
taken his  tears  for  a  sign  of  weakness  in  his  eyes. 
"  I  do  not  hear  well,  on  account  of  my  great  age," 
said  he  ;  "  and  it  seems  to  me  as  if  the  baptismal 
bell  from  the  distant  sanctuary  sounded  up  here 
very  faintly.  The  old  years  of  my  childhood, 
more  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  ascend  from  the 
ancient  depths  of  time,  and  gaze  on  me  in  wonder, 
while  I  and  they  know  not  whether  we  ought  to 
weep  or  laugh."  Then,  addressing  his  silky 
poodle,  he  called  out,  "  Ho  !  ho  !  come  here  old 
fellow  !  " 

The  allusion  to  his  childhood  brought  me  to  the 
purpose  of  my  visit.  "  Excellent  sir,"  said  I,  '*  I 
am  preparing  the  biography  of  the  deceased  Master 
Gotthelf  Fibel,  author  of  the  famous  Spelling- 
]>ook  ;  and  all  I  now  need  to  complete  it  is  the 
account  of  his  death."  The  old  man  smiled,  and 
made  a  low  bow.  I  continued,  u  No  one  is  more 


THE  ANCIENT  MAN.  199 

likely  to  know  the  particulars  of  his  decease  than 
yourself;  and  you  are  the  only  person  who  can 
enrich  me  with  the  rare  traits  of  his  childhood  ; 
because  every  incident  inscribed  on  a  child's  brain 
grows  deeper  with  years,  like  names  cut  into  a 
gourd,  while  later  inscriptions  disappear.  Tell 
me,  I  pray  you,  all  that  you  know  concerning  the 
departed  man  ;  for  I  am  to  publish  his  Life  at  the 
Michaelmas  Fair." 

He  murmured,  "  Excellent  genius  ;  scholar ; 
man  of  letters  ;  author  most  famous  ;  these  and 
other  fine  titles  I  learned  by  heart  and  applied  to 
myself,  while  I  was  that  vain,  blinded  Fibel,  who 
wrote  and  published  the  ordinary  Spelling-Book  in 
question." 

So  then,  this  old  man  was  the  blessed  Fibel 
himself!  A  hundred  and  twenty-five  notes  of 
admiration,  ay,  eighteen  hundred  and  eleven 
notes  in  a  row,  would  but  feebly  express  my  as- 
tonishment. 

[Here  follows  a  long  conversation  concerning 
Fibel,  after  which  the  narrative  continues  as  fol- 
lows :  — ] 

The  old  man  went  into  his  little  garden-house, 
and  I  followed  him.  He  whistled,  and  instantly 
his  black  squirrel  came  down  from  a  tree,  whither 
it  had  gone  more  for  pleasure  than  for  food. 
Nightingales,  thrushes,  starlings,  and  other  birds, 
flew  back  into  the  open  window  from  the  tops  of 
the  trees.  A  bulfinch,  whose  color  had  been 


200  THE  ANCIENT  MAN. 

changed  by  age  from  red  to  black,  strutted  about 
the  room,  uttering  droll  sounds,  which  it  could  not 
make  distinct.  The  hare  pattered  about  in  the 
twilight,  sometimes  on  his  hind  feet,  sometimes  on 
all  fours.  Every  dog  in  the  house  bounded  for- 
ward in  glad,  loving,  human  glee.  But  the  most 
joyful  of  all  was  the  poodle  ;  for  he  knew  he  was 
to  have  a  box  with  compartments  fastened  to  his 
neck,  containing  a  list  of  the  articles  wanted  for 
supper,  which  it  was  his  business  to  bring  from  the 
inn  in  Bienenroda.  He  was  Fibel's  victualler,  or 
provision-wagon.  Children,  who  ran  back  and 
forth,  were  the  only  other  ones  who  ministered  to 
his  wants. 

In  allusion  to  his  pets,  he  said  :  "  We  ought  to 
assist  the  circumscribed  faculties  of  animals,  by 
educating  them,  as  far  as  we  can,  since  we  stand 
toward  them,  in  a  certain  degree,  as  their  Lord 
God  ;  and  we  ought  to  train  them  to  good  morals, 
too  ;  for  very  possibly  they  may  continue  to  live 
after  death.  God  and  the  animals  are  always 
good  ;  but  not  so  with  man.'' 

Aged  men  impart  spiritual  things,  as  they  give 
material  things,  with  a  shaking  hand,  which  drops 
half.  In  the  effort  to  gather  up  his  recollections, 
he  permitted  me  to  quicken  his  memory  with  my 
own  ;  and  thus  I  obtained  a  connected  account  of 
some  particulars  in  his  experience.  He  said  he 
might  have  been  about  a  hundred  years  old,  when 
he  cut  a  new  set  of  teeth,  the  pain  of  which  dis- 


THE  ANCIENT  MAN.  201 

turbed  him  with  wild  dreams.  One  night  he 
"seemed  to  be  holding  in  his  hands  a  large  sieve, 
and  it  was  his  task  to  pull  the  meshes  apart,  one 
by  one.  The  close  net-work,  and  the  fastening  to 
the  wooden  rim,  gave  him  indescribable  trouble. 
But  as  his  dream  went  on,  he  seemed  to  hold  in 
his  hand  the  great  bright  sun,  which  flamed  up 
into  his  face.  Pie  woke  with  a  new-born  feeling, 
and  slumbered  again,  as  if  on  waving  tulips.  He 
dreamed  again  that  he  was  a  hundred  years  old, 
and  that  he  died  as  an  innocent  yearling  child, 
without  any  of  the  sin  or  woe  of  earth  ;  that  he 
found  his  parents  on  high,  who  brought  before  him 
a  long  procession  of  his  children,  who  had  re- 
mained invisible  to  him  while  he  was  in  this  world, 
because  they  were  transparent,  like  the  angels. 
He  rose  from  his  bed  with  new  teeth  and  new 
ideas.  The  old  Fibel  was  consumed,  and  a  true 
Phoenix  stood  in  his  place,  sunning  its  colored 
wings.  He  had  risen  glorified  out  of  no  other 
grave  than  his  own  body.  The  world  retreated  ; 
heaven  came  down. 

When  he  had  related  these  things,  he  at  once 

~     ' 

bade  me  good  night.  Without  waiting  for  the 
return  of  his  ministering  poodle,  and  with  hands 
folded  for  prayer,  he  showed  me  the  road.  I  with- 
drew, but  I  rambled  a  long  time  round  the  orchard, 
which  had  sprung  entirely  from  seed  of  his  own 
planting.  Indeed  he  seldom  ate  a  cherry  without 
smuggling  the  stone  and  burying  it  in  the  ground 
9* 


202  THE  ANCIENT  MAN. 

for  a  resurrection.  This  habit  often  annoyed  the 
neighboring  peasants,  who  did  not  want  high" 
things  growing  on  their  boundaries.  "  But,"  said 
he,  "  I  cannot  destroy  a  fruit-stone.  If  the  peas- 
ants pull  up  the  tree  it  produces,  it  will  still  have 
lived  a  little  while,  and  die  as  a  child  dies." 

While  loitering  in  the  orchard,  I  heard  an  even- 
ing hymn  played  and  sung.  I  returned  near 
Kibel's  window,  and  saw  him  slowly  turning  a 
hand-organ,  and  accompanying  the  tune  by  softly 
singing  an  evening  hymn.  This  organ,  aided  by 
his  fragment  of  a  voice,  sufficed,  in  its  monotonous 
uniformity,  for  his  domestic  devotion.  I  went 
away  repeating  the  song. 

Beautiful  was  the  orchard  when  I  returned  the 
next  morning.  And  the  hoar-frost  of  age  seemed 
thawed  and  fluid,  and  to  glisten  only  as  morning 
dew  on  Fibel's  after-blossom.  The  affection  of 
his  animals  toward  him  rendered  the  morning  still 
more  beautiful,  in  an  orchard  every  tree  of  which 
had  for  its  mother  the  stone  of  some  fruit  that  he 
had  enjoyed.  His  animals  were  an  inheritance 
from  his  parents  ;  though,  of  course  they  were  the 
great,  great,  great  grandchildren  of  those  which 
had  belonged  to  them.  The  trees  were  full  of 
brooding  birds,  and  by  a  slight  whistle  he  could 
lure  down  to  his  shoulders  this  tame  posterity  of 
his  father's  singing-school.  It  was  refreshing  to 
the  heart  to  see  how  quickly  the  tender  flutterers 
surrounded  him. 


THE  ANCIENT  MAN.  203 

With  the  infantine  satisfaction  of  a  gray-headed 
child,  he  was  accustomed  to  hang  up  on  sticks,  or 
in  the  trees,  wherever  the  rays  of  the  sun  could 
best  shine  upon  them,  little  balls  of  colored  glass  ; 
and  he  took  indescribable  delight  in  this  accordion 
of  silver,  gold,  and  jewel  hues.  These  parti- 
colored sun-balls,  varying  the  green  with  many 
flaming  tints,  were  like  crystal  tulip-beds.  Some 
of  the  red  ones  seemed  like  ripe  apples  among  the 
branches.  But  what  charmed  the  old  man  most 
were  reflections  of  the  landscape  from  these  little 
world-spheres.  They  resembled  the  moving  pros- 
pects shadowed  forth  in  a  diminishing  mirror. 
"•  Ah,"  said  he,  u  when  I  contemplate  the  colors 
produced  by  the  sunshine,  which  God  gives  to  this 
•dark  world,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had  departed, 
and  were  already  with  God.  And  yet,  since  HE 
is  in  us,  we  are  always  with  God." 

I  asked  him  how  it  happened  that,  at  bis  age,  he 
spoke  German  almost  purer  than  that  used  even 
by  our  best  writers.  Counting  his  birth  from  the 
end  of  his  century  [the  new  birth  described  in  his 
dream],  he  replied  :  wi  I  was  somewhere  about  two 
years  old,  when  I  happened  to  hear  a  holy,  spir- 
itual minister,  who  spoke  German  with  such  an 
angel  tongue,  that  he  would  not  have  needed  a 
better  in  heaven.  I  heard  him  every  Sabbath 
durino-  several  years."  He  could  not  tell  me  the 

O  ^ 

preacher's  name,  but  he  vividly  described  his  man- 
ner in  the  pulpit.     He  told  how  he  spoke  with  no 


204  THE  ANCIENT  MAN. 

superfluity  of  words,  airs,  or  gestures  ;  how  he 
uttered,  in  mild  tones,  things  the  most  beautiful 
and  forcible  ;  how,  like  the  Apostle  John,  with  his 
resting-place  close  to  heaven,  this  man  spoke  to 
the  world,  laying  his  hands  calmly  on  the  pulpit- 
desk,  as  an  arm-case  ;  how  his  every  tone  was  a 
heart,  and  his  every  look  a  blessing ;  how  the 
energy  of  this  disciple  of  Christ  was  embedded  in 
love,  as  the  firm  diamond  is  encased  in  ductile 
gold  ;  how  the  pulpit  was  to  him  a  Mount  Tabor, 
whereon  he  transfigured  both  himself  and  his 
hearers  ;  and  how,  of  all  clergymen,  he  best  per- 
formed that  which  is  the  most  difficult,  —  the 
praying  worthily. 

My  feelings  grew  constantly  warmer  toward  this 
time-worn  man,  while  I  did  not  require  a  full 
return  of  affection  from  him  any  more  than  I 
should  from  a  little  child.  But  I  remembered  that 
I  ought  not  to  disturb  the  evening  of  his  days  with 
things  of  the  world,  and  that  I  ought  to  depart. 
I  would  have  him  preserve  undisturbed  that  sub- 
lime position  of  old  age,  where  man  lives,  as  it 
were,  at  the  pole  ;  where  no  star  rises  or  sets  ; 
where  the  whole  firmament  is  motionless  and  clear, 
while  the  Pole-Star  of  another  world  shines  fixedly 
overhead.  I  therefore  said  to  him,  that  I  would 
return  in  the  evening,  and  take  my  leave.  To  my 
surprise,  he  replied,  that  perhaps  he  should  himself 
take  leave  of  the  whole  world  at  evening,  and  that 
he  wished  not  to  be  disturbed  when  dvino;.  He 


THE  ANCIENT  MAN.  205 

said  that  he  should  that  evening  read  to  the  end 
of  the  Revelation  of  St.  John,  and  perhaps  it 
might  be  the  end  with  him  also.  I  ought  to  have 

O  o 

mentioned  previously  that  he  read  continually,  and 
read  nothing  but  the  Bible,  regularly  through  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  ;  and  he  had  a  fixed  im- 
pression that  he  should  depart  on  concluding  the 
twentieth  and  twenty-first  verses  of  the  twenty- 
second  chapter  of  the  Revelation  of  John  :  "  He 
which  testifieth  of  these  things  saith,  Surely  I  come 
quickly :  Amen.  Even  so,  come,  Lord  Jesus. 
The  grace  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  be  with  you 
all.  Amen."  In  consequence  of  this  belief,  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  reading  the  last  books  of  the 
Bible  faster. 

Little  as  I  believed  in  so  sudden  a  withering  of 
his  protracted  after-blossom,  I  obeyed  his  latest- 
formed  wish.  Whenever  a  right  wish  is  expressed 
by  any  man,  we  should  do  well  to  remember  that 
it  may  be  his  last.  I  took  my  leave,  requesting 
him  to  intrust  me  with  his  testamentary  commis- 
sions for  the  village.  He  said  they  had  been  taken 
charge  of  long  ago,  and  the  children  knew  them. 
He  cut  a  twig  from  a  Christmas-tree,  coeval  with 
his  childhood,  and  presented  me  with  it  as  a  keep- 
sake. 

In  the  beautiful  summer  evening,  I  could  not  re- 

O  * 

frain  from  stealthily  approaching  the  house,  through 
the  orchard,  to  ascertain  whether  the  good  old  man 
had  ended  his  Bible  and  his  life  together.  On  the 


206  THE  ANCIENT  MAN. 

way,  I  found  the  torn  envelope  of  a  letter  sealed 
with  a  black  seal,  and  over  me  the  white  storks 
were  speeding  their  way  to  a  warmer  country.  I 
was  not  much  encouraged  when  I  heard  all  the 
birds  singing  in  his  orchard  ;  for  their  ancestors 
had  done  the  same  when  his  father  died.  A  tow- 
ering cloud,  full  of  the  latest  twilight,  spread  itself 
before  my  short-sighted  vision,  like  a  far-off,  bloom- 
ing, foreign  landscape  ;  and  I  could  not  compre- 
hend how  it  was  that  I  had  never  before  noticed 
this  strange-looking,  reddish  land  ;  so  much  the 
more  easily  did  it  occur  to  me  that  this  might  be 
his  Orient,  whither  God  was  leading  the  weary 
one.  I  had  become  so  confused,  as  actually  to 
mistake  red  bean-blossoms  for  a  bit  of  fallen  sunset. 
Presently,  I  heard  a  man  singing  to  the  accompa- 
niment of  an  organ.  It  was  the  aged  man  singing 
his  evening  hymn  : 

"  Lord  of  my  life,  another  day 
Once  more  hath  sped  away." 

The  birds  in  the  room,  and  those  on  the  distant 
branches  also,  chimed  in  with  his  song.  The  bees, 
too,  joined  in  with  their  humming,  as  in  the  warm 
summer  evening  they  dived  into  the  cups  of  the 
linden-blossoms.  My  joy  kindled  into  a  flame. 
He  was  alive  !  But  I  would  not  disturb  his  holy 
evening.  I  would  let  him  remain  with  Him  who 
had  surrounded  him  with  gifts  and  with  years,  and 
not  call  upon  him  to  think  of  any  man  here  below. 
I  listened  to  the  last  verse  of  his  hymn,  that  I 


THE  ANCIENT  MAN.  207 

might  be  still  more  certain  of  the  actual  continu- 
ance of  his  life,  and  then  tardily  I  slipped  away. 
To  my  joy,  I  still  found,  in  the  eternal  youth  of 
Nature,  beautiful  references  to  his  lengthened  age  ; 
from  the  everlasting  rippling  of  the  brook  in  the 
meadow,  to  a  late  swarm  of  bees,  which  had  settled 
themselves  on  a  linden-tree,  probably  in  the  fore- 
noon, before  two  o'clock,  as  if,  by  taking  their 
lodging  with  him,  he  was  to  be  their  bee-father, 
and  continue  to  live.  Every  star  twinkled  to  me 
a  hope. 

I  went  to  the  orchard  very  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, wishing  to  look  upon  the  aged  man  in  sleep  ; 
death's  ancient  prelude,  the  warm  dream  of  cold 
death.  But  he  was  reading,  and  had  read,  in  his 
large-printed  Bible,  far  beyond  the  Deluge,  as  I 
could  see  by  the  engravings.  I  held  it  to  be  a  duty 
not  to  interrupt  his  solitude  long.  I  told  him  I 
was  going  away,  and  gave  him  a  little  farewell 
billet,  instead  of  farewell  words.  I  was  much 
moved,  though  silent.  It  was  not  the  kind  of 
emotion  with  which  we  take  leave  of  a  friend,  or  a 
youth,  or  an  old  man  ;  it  was  like  parting  from  a 
remote  stranger-being,  who  scarcely  glances  at  us 
from  the  high,  cold  clouds  wjiich  hold  him  between 
the  earth  and  the  sun.  There  is  a  stillness  of  soul 
which  resembles  the  stillness  of  bodies  on  a  frozen 
sea,  or  on  high  mountains  ;  every  loud  tone  is  an 
interruption  too  prosaically  harsh,  as  in  the  softest 
adagio.  Even  those  words,  '•  for  the  last  time,"' 


208  THE  ANCIENT  MAN. 

the  old  man  had  long  since  left  behind  him.  Yet 
he  hastily  presented  to  me  my  favorite  flower,  a 
blue  Spanish  vetch,  in  an  earthen  pot.  This  but- 
terfly-flower is  the  sweeter,  inasmuch  as  it  so  easily 
exhales  its  perfume  and  dies.  He  said  he  had  not 
yet  sung  the  usual  morning-hymn,  which  followed 
the  survival  of  his  death-evening  ;  and  he  begged 
me  not  to  take  it  amiss  that  he  did  not  accompany 
me,  or  even  once  look  after  me,  especially  as  he 
could  not  see  very  well.  He  then  added,  almost 
with  emotion,  "  O  friend,  may  you  live  virtu- 
ously !  We  shall  meet  again,  where  my  departed 
relatives  will  be  present,  and  also  that  great 
preacher,  whose  name  I  have  forgotten.  We 
meet  again." 

He  turned  immediately,  quite  tranquilly,  to  his 
organ.  I  parted  from  him,  as  from  a  life.  He 
played  on  his  organ  beneath  the  trees,  and  his  face 
was  turned  toward  me  ;  but  to  his  dim  eyes  I 
knew  that  I  should  soon  become  as  a  motionless 
cloud.  So  I  remained  until  he  began  his  morning 
hymn,  from  old  Neander  : 

"  The  Lord  still  leaves  me  living, 

I  hasten  Him  to  praise  ; 
My  joyful  spirit  giving, 
He  hears  my  early  lays." 

While  he  was  singing,  the  birds  flew  round  him  ; 
the  dogs  accustomed  to  the  music,  were  silent  ; 
and  it  even  wafted  the  swarm  of  bees  into  their 
hive.  Bowed  down  as  he  was  by  age,  his  figure 


THE  ANCIENT  MAN.  209 

was  so  tall,  that  from  the  distance  where  I  stood 
he  looked  sufficiently  erect.  I  remained  until  the 
old  man  had  sung  the  twelfth  and  last  verse  of  his 
morning  hymn  : 

"  Ready  my  course  to  finish, 

And  come,  0  God,  to  Thee  ; 
A  conscience  pure  I  cherish, 
Till  death  shall  summon  me." 


NOTHING  of  God's  making  can  a  man  love 
rightly,  without  heing  the  surer  of  God's  loving 
himself;  neither  the  moon,  nor  the  stars,  nor  a 
rock,  nor  a  tree,  nor  a  flower,  nor  a  hird.  Not 
the  least  grateful  of  my  thanksgivings  have  been 
hymns  that  have  come  to  my  lips  while  I  have  been 
listening  to  the  birds  of  an  evening.  Only  let  us 
love  what  God  loves,  and  then  His  love  of  our- 
selves will  feel  certain,  and  the  sight  of  his  face 
we  shall  be  sure  of;  and  immortality,  and  heaven, 
and  the  freedom  of  the  universe,  will  be  as  easy  for 
us  to  believe  in,  as  a  father's  giving  good  gifts  to 
his  children.  —  MOUNTFORD. 


MILTON   ON    HIS   LOSS   OF   SIGHT. 


I  AM  old  and  blind  ! 
Men  point  at  me  as  smitten  by  God's  frown  ; 
Afflicted,  and  deserted  of  my  kind, 
Yet  I  am  not  cast  down. 

I  am  weak,  yet  strong  ; 
I  murmur  not,  that  I  no  longer  see  ; 
Poor,  old,  and  helpless,  I  the  more  belong, 

Father  supreme !  to  thee. 

0  merciful  One ! 

When  men  are  farthest,  then  thou  art  most  near 
When  friends  pass  by,  my  weaknesses  to  shun, 

Thy  chariot  I  hear. 

Thy  glorious  face 

Is  leaning  towards  me,  and  its  holy  light 
Shines  in  upon  my  lonely  dwelling-place ; 

And  there  is  no  more  night. 

On  my  bended  knees, 
I  recognize  thy  purpose,  clearly  shown  ; 
My  vision  thou  hast  dimmed,  that  I  may  see 

Thyself,  thyself  alone. 


MILTON  ON  HIS  LOSS   OF  SIGHT.      211 

I  have  naught  to  fear  ; 
This  darkness  is  the  shadow  of  thy  wing ; 
Beneath  it  I  am  almost  sacred  ;  here 

Can  come  no  evil  thing. 

O,  I  seem  to  stand 

Trembling,  where  foot  of  mortal  ne'er  hath  been  ; 
Wrapped  in  the  radiance  from  the  sinless  land, 

Which  eye  hath  never  seen. 

Visions  come  and  go  ; 

Shapes  of  resplendent  beauty  round  me  throng  ; 
From  angel  lips  I  seem  to  hear  the  flow 

Of  soft  and  holy  song. 

It  is  nothing  now,  — 

When  heaven  is  opening  on  my  sightless  eyes, 
When  airs  from  paradise  refresh  my  brow,  — 

That  earth  in  darkness  lies. 

In  a  purer  clime, 

My  being  fills  with  rapture  !  waves  of  thought 
Roll  in  upon  my  spirit !  strains  sublime 

Break  over  me  unsought. 

Give  me  now  my  lyre  !    - 
I  feel  the  stirrings  of  a  gift  divine  ; 
Within  my  bosom  glows  unearthly  fire, 

Lit  by  no  skill  of  mine. 


LETTER   FROM   AN   OLD   WOMAN, 
ON  HER  BIRTHDAY. 

BY    L.    MARIA    CHILD. 


ask  me,  dear  friend,  whether  it  does 
not  make  me  sad  to  grow  old.  I  tell 
you  frankly  it  did  make  me  sad  for  a 
while ;  but  that  time  has  long  since 
past.  The  name  of  being  old  I  never  dreaded.  I 
am  not  aware  that  there  ever  was  a  time  when 
I  should  have  made  the  slightest  objection  to  hav- 
ing my  age  proclaimed  by  the  town-crier,  if  people 
had  had  any  curiosity  to  know  it.  But  I  suppose 
every  human  being  sympathizes  with  the  senti- 
ment expressed  bv  Wordsworth  : 

"  Life's  Autumn  past,  I  stand  on  Winter's  verge, 
And  daily  lose  what  I  desire  to  keep." 

The  first  white  streaks  in  my  hair,  and  the 
spectre  of  a  small  black  spider  floating  before  my 
eyes,  foreboding  diminished  clearness  of  vision, 
certainly  did  induce  melancholy  reflections.  At 


LETTER  FROM  AN  OLD    WOMAN.      213 

that  period,  it  made  me  nervous  to  think  about  the 
approaches  of  old  age  ;  and  when  young  people 
thoughtlessly  reminded  me  of  it,  they  cast  a  shadow 
over  the  remainder  of  the  day.  It  was  mournful 
as  the  monotonous  rasping  of  crickets,  which  tells 
that  "  the  year  is  wearing  from  its  prime."  I 
dreaded  age  in  the  same  way  that  I  always  dread 
the  coming  of  winter  ;  because  I  want  to  keep  the 
light,  the  warmth,  the  flowers,  and  the  growth  of 
summer.  But,  after  all,  when  winter  comes,  I 
soon  get  used  to  him,  and  am  obliged  to  acknowl- 
edge that  he  is  a  handsome  old  fellow,  and  by  no 
means  destitute  of  pleasant  qualities.  And  just 
so  it  has  proved  with  old  age.  Now  that  it  has 
come  upon  me,  I  find  it  full  of  friendly  compensa- 
tions for  all  that  it  takes  away. 

The  period  of  sadness  and  nervous  dread  on 
this  subject,  which  I  suppose  to  be  a  very  general 
experience,  is  of  longer  or  shorter  duration,  ac- 
cording to  habits  previously  formed.  From  ob- 
servation, I  judge  that  those  whose  happiness 
has  mainly  depended  on  balls,  parties,  fashionable 
intercourse,  and  attentions  flattering  to  vanity, 
usually  experience  a  prolonged  and  querulous  sad- 
ness, as  years  advance  upon  them  ;  because,  in  the 
nature  of  things,  such  enjoyments  pass  out  of 
the  reach  of  the  old,  when  it  is  too  late  to  form  a 
taste  for  less  transient  pleasures.  The  temporary 
depression  to  which  I  have  alluded  soon  passed 
from  my  spirit,  and  I  attribute  it  largely  to  the 


214     LETTER  FROM  AN  OLD    WOMAN, 

fact  that  I  have  always  been  pleased  with  very 
simple  and  accessible  tiling?.  I  always  shudder  a 
little  at  the  approach  of  winter;  yet,  when  it 
comes,  the  trees,  dressed  in  feathery  snow,  or  pris- 
matic icicles,  give  me  far  more  enjoyment,  than  I 
could  find  in  a  ball-room  full  of  duchesses,  decor- 
ated with  marabout-feathers,  opals,  and  diamonds. 
No  costly  bridal-veil  sold  in  Broadway  would  in- 
terest me  so  much  as  the  fairy  lace-work  which 
frost  leaves  upon  the  windows,  in  an  unceasing 
variety  of  patterns.  The  air,  filled  with  minute 
snow-stars,  falling  softly,  ever  falling,  to  beautify 
the  earth,  is  to  me  a  far  lovelier  sight,  than  would 
have  been  Prince  Esterhazy,  who  dropped  seed- 
pearls  from  his  embroidered  coat,  as  he  moved  in 
the  measured  mazes  of  the  dance. 

Speaking  of  the  beautiful  phenomenon  of  snow, 
reminds  me  how  often  the  question  has  been  asked 
what  snow  z's,  and  what  makes  it.  I  have  never 
seen  a  satisfactory  answer  ;  but  I  happen  to  know 
what  snow  is,  because  I  once  saw  the  process  of 
its  formation.  I  was  at  the  house  of  a  Quaker, 
whose  neat  wife  washed  in  an  unfinished  back- 
room all  winter,  that  the  kitchen  might  be  kept  in 
good  order.  I  passed  through  the  wash-room  on 
the  16th  of  December,  1835,  a  day  still  remem- 
bered by  manv  for  its  remarkable  intensity  of  cold. 
Clouds  of  steam,  rising  from  the  tubs  and  boiling 
kettle,  ascended  to  the  ceiling,  and  fell  from  thence 
in  the  form  of  a  miniature  snow-storm.  Here 


ON  HER  BIRTHDAY.  215 

was  an  answer  to  the  question,  What  is  snow  ? 
This  plainly  proved  it  to  be  frozen  vapor,  as  ice  is 
frozen  water.  The  particles  of  water,  expanded 
by  heat,  and  floating  in  the  air,  were  arrested  in 
their  separated  state,  and  congealed  in  particles. 
It  does  not  snow  when  the  weather  is  intensely 
cold  ;  for  the  lower  part  of  the  atmosphere  must 
have  some  degree  of  warmth,  if  vapor  is  floating 
in  it.  When  this  vapor  ascends,  and  meets  a 
colder  stratum  of  air,  it  is  congealed,  and  falls 
downward  in  the  form  of  snow. 

"  The  snow  !  The  snow  !  The  beautiful  snow  !  " 
How  handsome  do  meadows  and  fields  look  in 
their  pure,  sparkling  robe  !  I  do  not  deny  that 
the  winter  of  the  year  and  the  winter  of  life  both 
have  intervals  of  dreariness.  The  miserere  howled 
by  stormy  winds  is  not  pleasing  to  the  ear,  nor  are 
the  cold  gray  river  and  the  dark  brown  hills  re- 
freshing to  the  eye.  But  the  reading  of  Whittier's 
Psalnl  drowns  the  howling  of  the  winds,  as  "  the 
clear  tones  of  a  bell  are  heard  above  the  carts  and 
drays  of  a  city."  Even  simple  voices  of  mutual 
affection,  by  the  fireside,  have  such  musical  and 
pervasive  power,  that  the  outside  storm  often 
passes  by  unheard.  The  absence  of  colors  in  the 
landscape  is  rather  dismal,  especially  in  the  latter 
part  of  the  winter.  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  do 
when  I  feel  a  longing  for  bright  hues  ?  I  suspend 
glass  prisms  in  the  windows,  and  they  make  the 
lisht  blossom  into  rainbows  all  over  the  room. 


216      LETTER   FROM  AN  OLD    WOMAN, 

Childish  !  you  will  say.  I  grant  it.  But  is  child- 
ishness the  greatest  folly  ?  I  told  you  I  was 
satisfied  with  very  simple  pleasures  ;  and  whether 
it  be  wise  or  not,  I  consider  it  great  good  fortune. 
It  is  more  fortunate  certainly  to  have  home-made 
rainbows  within,  especially  when  one  is  old  ;  but 
even  outward  home-made  rainbows  are  not  to  be 
despised,  when  flowers  have  hidden  themselves, 
and  the  sun  cannot  manifest  his  prismatic  glories, 
for  want  of  mediums  appropriate  for  their  trans- 
mission. 

But  Nature  does  not  leave  us  long  to  pine  for 
variety.  Before  the  snow-lustre  quite  passes  away, 
March  comes,  sombre  in  dress,  but  with  a  cheerful 
voice  of  promise  : 

"  The  beechen  buds  begin  to  swell, 
And  woods  the  blue-bird's  warble  know." 

Here  and  there  a  Lady's  Delight  peeps  forth,  smil- 
ing at  me  "right  peert^"  as  Westerners  say  ;  and 
the  first  sight  of  the  bright  little  thing  gladdens  my 
heart,  like  the  crowing  of  a  babe.  The  phenomena 
of  spring  have  never  yet  failed  to  replenish  the 
fountains  of  my  inward  life  : 

"  Spring  still  makes  spring  in  the  mind, 

When  sixty  years  are  told  ; 
Love  wakes  anew  this  throbbing  heart, 
And  we  are  never  old." 

As  the  season  of  Nature's  renovation  advances,  it 
multiplies  within  me  spiritual  photographs,  never 
to  be  destroyed.  Last  year  I  saw  a  striped  squirrel 


ON  HER  BIRTHDAY.  217 

hopping  along  with  a  green  apple  in  his  paws, 
hugged  up  to  his  pretty  little  white  breast.  My 
mind  daguerrotyped  him  instantaneously.  It  is 
there  now  ;  and  I  expect  to  find  a  more  vivid  copy 
when  my  soul  opens  its  portfolio  of  pictures  in  the 
other  world. 

The  wonders  which  summer  brings  are  more 
and  more  suggestive  of  thought  as  I  grow  older. 
What  mysterious  vitality,  what  provident  care, 
what  lavishness  of  ornament,  does  Nature  mani- 
fest, even  in  her  most  common  productions  !  Look 
at  a  dry  bean-pod,  and  observe  what  a  delicate  lit- 
tle strip  of  silver  tissue  is  tenderly  placed  above 
and  below  the  seed  !  Examine  the  clusters  of 
Sweet- Williams,  and  you  will  find  an  endless  vari- 
ety of  minute  embroidery-patterns,  prettily  dotted 
into  the  petals  with  diverse  shades  of  colors.  The 
shining  black  seed  they  produce  look  all  alike  ; 
but  scatter  them  in  the  ground,  and  there  will 
spring  forth  new  combinations  of  form  and  color, 
exceeding  the  multiform  changes  of  a  kaleidoscope. 
I  never  can  be  sufficiently  thankful  that  I  early 
formed  the  habit  of  working  in  the  garden  with 
loving  good-will.  It  has  contributed  more  than 
anything  else  to  promote  healthiness  of  mind  and 
body. 

Before  one  has   time  to  observe  a  thousandth 

part  of  the    miracles  of  summer,  winter  appears 

again,  in  ermine  and  diamonds,  lavishly  scattering 

his  pearls.      My  birthday  comes   at   this   season, 

10 


218      LETTER  FROM  AN  OLD    WOMAN, 

and  so  I  accept  his  jewels  as  a  princely  largess 
peculiarly  bestowed  upon  myself.  The  day  is  kept 
as  a  festival.  That  is  such  a  high-sounding  expres- 
sion, that  it  may  perhaps  suggest  to  you  recep- 
tion-parties, complimentary  verses,  and  quantities 
of  presents.  Very  far  from  it.  Not  more  than 
half  a  dozen  people  in  the  world  know  when  the 
day  occurs,  and  they  do  not  all  remember  it.  As 
I  arrive  at  the  new  milestone  on  my  pilgrimage,  I 
generally  find  that  a  few  friends  have  placed  gar- 
lands upon  it.  My  last  anniversary  was  distin- 
guished by  a  beautiful  novelty.  An  offering  came 
from  people  who  never  knew  me  personally,  but 
who  were  gracious  enough  to  say  thev  took  an 

O  O  t/  i> 

interest  in  me  on  account  of  my  writings.  That 
was  a  kindness  that  carried  me  over  into  my  new 
year  on  fairy  wings  !  I  always  know  that  the 
flowers  in  such  garlands  are  genuine  ;  for  those 
who  deal  in  artificial  roses  are  not  in  the  habit  of 
presenting  them  to  secluded  old  people,  without 
wealth  or  power.  I  have  heard  of  a  Parisian  lady, 
who  preferred  Nattier's  manufactured  roses  to  those 
produced  by  Nature,  because  they  were,  as  she 
said,  "  more  like  what  a  rose  ought  to  be."  But  I 
never  prefer  artificial  things  to  natural,  even  if 
they  are  more  like  what  they  ought  to  be.  So  I 
rejoice  over  the  genuineness  of  the  offerings  which 
I  find  on  the  milestone,  and  often  give  preference 
to  the  simplest  of  them  all.  I  thankfully  add  them 
to  my  decorations  for  the  annual  festival,  which  is 


ON  HER  BIRTHDAY.  219 

kept  in  the  private  apartments  of  my  own  soul, 
where  six  angel-guests  present  themselves  unbid- 
den,—  Use  and  Beauty,  Love  and  Memory,  Humil- 
ity and  Gratitude.  The  first  suggests  to  me  to 
consecrate  the  advent  of  a  new  year  in  my  life 
by  some  acts  of  kindness  toward  the  sad,  the  op- 
pressed, or  the  needy.  Another  tells  me  to  collect 
all  the  books,  engravings,  vases,  &c.,  bestowed  by 
friendly  hands  on  the  preceding  birthdays  of  my 
life.  Their  beauties  of  thought,  of  form,  and  of 
color,  excite  my  imagination,  and  fill  me  with  con- 
templations of  the  scenes  they  represent,  or  the 
genius  that  produced  them.  Other  angels  bring 
back  the  looks  and  tones  of  the  givers,  and  pleas- 
ant incidents,  and  happy  meetings,  in  bygone  years. 
Sometimes,  Memory  looks  into  rny  eyes  too-  sadlv. 
and  I  answer  the  look  with  tears.  But  I  say  to 
her,  Xay,  my  friend,  do  not  fix  upon  me  that 
melancholy  gaze  !  Give  me  some  of  thy  flowers  ! 
Then,  with  a  tender,  moonlight  smile,  she  brings 
me  a  handful  of  fragrant  roses,  pale,  but  beautiful. 
The  other  angels  bid  me  remember  who  bestowed 
the  innumerable  blessings  of  Nature  and  Art,  of 
friendship,  and  capacity  for  culture,  and  how  un- 
worthy I  am  of  all  His  goodness.  Thev  move  mv 
heart  to  earnest  prayer  that  former  faults  may  be 
forgiven,  and  that  I  may  be  enabled  to  live  more 
worthily  during  the  year  on  which  I  am  entering. 
But  I  do  not  try  to  recall  the  faults  of  the  past, 
lest  such  meditations  should  tend  to  make  me  weak 


220     LETTER  FROM  AN  OLD    WOMAN, 

for  the  future.  I  have  learned  that  self-conscious- 
ness is  not  a  healthy  state  of  mind,  on  whatever 
theme  it  employs  itself.  Therefore,  I  pray  the 
all-loving  Father  to  enable  me  to  forget  myself ; 
not  to  occupy  my  thoughts  with  my  own  merits, 
or  my  own  defects,  my  successes,  or  my  disap- 
pointments ;  but  to  devote  my  energies  to  the 
benefit  of  others,  as  a  humble  instrument  of  his 
goodness,  in  whatever  way  He  may  see  fit  to  point 
out. 

On  this  particular  birthday,  I  have  been  think- 
ing more  than  ever  of  the  many  compensations 
which  a<re  brings  for  its  undeniable  losses.  I  count 

~  O 

it  something  to  know,  that,  though  the  flowers 
offered  me  are  few,  they  are  undoubtedly  genuine. 
I  never  conformed  much  to  the  world's  ways,  but, 
now  that  I  am  an  old  woman,  I  feel  more  free  to 
ignore  its  conventional  forms,  and  neglect  its  fleet- 
ing fashions.  That  also  is  a  privilege.  Another 
compensation  of  years  is,  that,  having  outlived  ex- 
pectations, I  am  free  from  disappointments.  I 
deem  it  a  great  blessing,  also,  that  the  desire  for 
knowledge  grows  more  active,  as  the  time  for 
acquiring  it  diminishes,  and  as,  I  realize  more  fully 
how  much  there  is  to  be  learned.  It  is  true  that 
in  this  pursuit  one  is  always  coming  up  against 
walls  of  limitation.  All  sorts  of  flying  and  creep- 
ing things  excite  questions  in  my  mind  to  which  I 
obtain  no  answers.  I  want  to  know  what  every 
bird  and  insect  is  doing,  and  what  it  is  done  for ; 


ON  HER  BIRTHDAY.  221 

but  I  do  not  understand  their  language,  and  no  in- 
terpreter between  us  is  to  be  found.  They  go  on, 
busily  managing  their  own  little  affairs,  far  more 
skilfully  than  we  humans  could  teach  them,  with 
all  our  boasted  superiority  of  intellect.  I  peep  and 
pry  into  their  operations  with  more  and  more  in- 
terest, the  older  I  grow  ;  but  they  keep  their  own 
secrets  so  well,  that  I  discover  very  little.  What 
I  do  find  out,  however,  confirms  my  belief,  that 
"  the  hand  which  made  them  is  divine  " ;  and  that 
is  better  than  any  acquisitions  of  science.  Looking 
upon  the  world  as  a  mere  spectacle  of  beauty,  I 
find  its  attractions  increasing.  I  notice  more  than 
I  ever  did  the  gorgeous  phantasmagoria  of  sunsets, 
the  magical  changes  of  clouds,  the  endless  varieties 
of  form  and  color  in  the  flowers  of  garden  and  field, 
and  the  shell-flowers  of  the  sea.  Something  of 
tenderness  mingles  with  the  admiration  excited  by 
all  this  fair  array  of  earth,  like  the  lingering,  fare- 
well craze  we  bestow  on  scenes  from  which  we  are 

C3 

soon  to  part. 

But  the  most  valuable  compensations  of  age  are 
those  of  a  spiritual  character.  I  have  committed 
so  many  faults  myself,  that  I  have  become  more 
tolerant  of  the  faults  of  others  than  I  was  when  I 
was  young.  My  own  strength  has  so  often  failed 
me  when  I  trusted  to  it,  that  I  have  learned  to 
look  more  humbly  for  aid  from  on  high.  I  have 
formerly  been  too  apt  to  murmur  that  I  was  not 
endowed  with  gifts  and  opportunities,  which  it  ap- 


222     LETTER   FROM  AN  OLD    WOMAN. 

peared  to  me  would  have  been  highly  advantageous. 
But  I  now  see  the  wisdom  and  goodness  of  our 
Heavenly  Father,  even  more  in  what  He  has  de- 
nied, than  in  what  He  has  bestowed.  The  rugged 
paths  through  which  I  have  passed,  the  sharp  re- 
grets I  have  experienced,  seem  smoother  and  softer 
in  the  distance  behind  me.  Even  my  wrong-doings 
and  short-comings  have  often  been  mercifully  trans- 
muted into  blessings.  They  have  helped  me  to 
descend  into  the  Valley  of  Humility,  through  which 
it  is  necessary  to  pass  on  our  way  to  the  Beautiful 
City.  My  restless  aspirations  are  quieted.  They 
are  now  all  concentrated  in  this  one  prayer  : 

"  Help  me,  this  and  every  day, 
To  live  more  nearly  as  I  pray." 

Having  arrived  at  this  state  of  peacefulness  and 
submission,  I  find  the  last  few  years  the  happiest 
of  my  life. 

To   you,   my   dear   friend,    who   are    so    much 

younger,  I  would  say,  Travel   cheerfully  toward 

the   sunset !     It  will   pass  gently  into  a  twilight, 

which  has  its  own  peculiar  beauties,  though 

differing  from  the  morning  ;   and  you 

will    find    that    the   night  also 

is    cheered    by   friendly 

glances  of  the 

stars. 

0) 


BRIGHT    DAYS   IN   WINTER. 

BY  J.    G.    WHITTIER. 

BLAND  as  the  morning's  breath  of  June, 
The  southwest  breezes  play, 
And  through  its  haze,  the  winter  noon 
Seems  warm  as  summer's  day. 

The  snow-plumed  Angel  of  the  North 

Has  dropped  his  icy  spear  ; 
Again  the  mossy  eartli  looks  forth, 

Again  the  streams  gush  clear. 

The  fox  his  hillside  den  forsakes  ; 

The  muskrat  leaves  his  nook  ; 
The  blue-bird,  in  the  meadow-brakes, 

Is  singing  with  the  brook. 

"  Bear  up,  0  Mother  Nature  !  "  cry 
Bird,  breeze,  and  streamlet  free  ; 

"  Our  winter  voices  prophesy 
Of  summer  days  to  thee." 

So  in  these  winters  of  the  soul, 
By  wintry  blasts  and  drear 


224  BRIGHT  DAYS  IN   WINTER. 

O'erswept  from  Memory's  frozen  pole, 
Will  summer  days  appear. 

Reviving  hope  and  faith,  they  show 
The  soul  its  living  powers, 

And  how,  beneath  the  winter's  snow, 
Lie  germs  of  summer  flowers. 

The  Night  is  mother  of  the  Day  ; 

The  Winter  of  the  Spring  ; 
And  ever  upon  old  decay 

The  greenest  mosses  cling. 

Behind  the  cloud  the  starlight  lurks  ; 

Through  showers  the  sunbeams  fall ; 
For  God,  who  loveth  all  his  works, 

Has  left  his  Hope  with  all. 


THE    CANARY    BIRD. 

YELLOW,  small  Canary  bird, 
Sweetly  singing  all  day  long, 
Still  in  winter  you  are  heard, 
Carolling  a  summer  song. 

Thus  when  days  are  drear  and  dim, 
And  the  heart  is  caged,  as  you, 

May  it  still,  with  hopeful  hymn, 
Sing  of  joy  and  find  it  true. 

Joiix  STERLING. 


OLD    BACHELORS. 


By   L.    MARIA    CHILD. 


HE  use  of  the  terra  old  bachelor  might 
be  objected  to,  with  as  much  reason 
as  that  of  old  maid,  were  it  not  for 
the  fact  that  it  has  been  regarded  less 
contemptuously.  Until  within  the  last  half-cen- 
tury, books  have  been  written  almost  entirely  by 
men.  Looking  at  the  subject  from  their  point  of 
view,  they  have  generally  represented  that,  if  a 
woman  remained  single,  it  was  because  she  could 
not  avoid  it ;  and  that  her  unfortunate  condition 
was  the  consequence  of  her  being  repulsive  in 
person  or  manners.  The  dramas  and  general 
literature  of  all  countries  abound  with  jokes  on 
this  subject.  Women  are  described  as  jumping 
with  ridiculous  haste  at  the  first  chance  to  marry. 
and  as  being  greatly  annoyed  if  no  chance  presents 
itself.  To  speak  of  women  as  in  the  market,  and 
of  men  as  purchasers,  has  so  long  been  a  general 
habit,  that  it  is  done  unconsciously  ;  and  the  habit 
10*  o 


226  OLD  BACHELORS. 

doubtless  embodies  a  truth,  though  few  people 
reflect  why  it  is  so.  Nearly  all  the  trades,  pro- 
fessions, and  offices  are.  engrossed  by  men  ;  hence 
marriage  is  almost  the  only  honorable  means  of 
support  for  women,  and  almost  the  only  avenue 
open  to  those  who  are  ambitious  of  position  in 
society.  This  state  of  things  gives  an  unhealthy 
stimulus  to  match-making,  and  does  much  to  de- 
grade the  true  dignity  and  purity  of  marriage. 
But  I  allude  to  it  here  merely  as  explanatory  why 
old  maid  is  considered  a  more  reproachful  term 
than  old  bachelor  ;  one  being  supposed  to  be  in- 
curred voluntarily,  and  the  other  by  compulsion. 
There  is  a  germ  of  vanity,  more  or  less  expanded 
in  human  nature,  under  all  circumstances.  Slaves 
are  often  very  vain  of  bringing  an  unusually  high 
price  in  the  market ;  because  it  implies  that  they 
are  handsome,  vigorous,  or  intelligent.  It  is  the 
same  feeling,  manifested  under  a  different  aspect, 
that  makes  many  women  vain  of  the  number 
of  offers  they  have  received,  and  mortified  if  they 
have  had  none.  Men,  on  the  contrary,  being 
masters  of  the  field,  are  troubled  with  no  sense  of 
shame,  if  they  continue  in  an  isolated  position 
through  life,  though  they  may  experience  regret. 
The  kind  of  jokes  to  which  they  are  subjected 
generally  imply  that  they  have  been  less  magnani- 
mous than  they  should  have  been,  in  not  taking 
to  themselves  somebody  to  protect  and  support. 
Such  a  "railing  accusation"  is  rather  gratifying 


OLD  BACHELORS.  227 

to  the  pride  of  human  nature.  Instead  of  hang- 
ing their  heads,  they  sometimes  smile,  and  say, 
with  an  air  of  gracious  condescension  :  "  Perhaps 
I  may  some  day.  I  have  not  decided  yet.  I 
want  to  examine  the  market  further."  Now  it  is 
ten  chances  to  one,  that  the  individual  thus  speak- 
ing has  been  examining  the  market,  as  he  calls  it, 
for  a  long  time  ;  that  he  has  been  to  the  Fair,  and 
tried  to  appropriate  various  pretty  articles,  but  has 
been  told  that  they  were  reserved  for  a  previous 
purchaser.  He  may  have  been  disappointed  on 
such  occasions  ;  and  if  they  occurred  when  youth 
was  passing  away,  he  may  have  been  prompted  to 
look  in  the  mirror,  to  pull  out  gray  hairs,  and  as- 
certain whether  crows  have  been  walking  over  his 
face.  But  if  he  perceives  traces  of  their  feet,  he 
says  to  himself,  "  Pshaw  !  What  consequence  is 
it,  so  long  as  I  have  a  full  purse  and  a  handsome 
house  to  offer  ?  I  shall  have  better  luck  next 
time.  There  are  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever 
were  caught.  One  only  needs  to  have  bait  on  the 
hook."  And  so  when  a  married  acquaintance 
reminds  him  that  he  ought  to  take  a  wife,  lie 
answers,  complacently,  kk  Perhaps  I  shall.  I  want 
to  examine  the  market."  He  is  the  one  to  confer 
support ;  he  need  not  wait  to  be  asked.  There 
is  a  dignified  independence  in  such  a  position. 
Hence  the  term  old  bachelor  is  not  so  opprobrious 
as  old  maid,  and  no  apology  is  necessary  for 
usincr  it. 


228  OLD  BACHELORS. 

It  is  true,  the  single  brotherhood  are  not  without 
their  annoyances.  A  meddlesome  woman  will 
sometimes  remark  to  a  bachelor  friend,  in  a  sig- 

c3 

uificant  sort  of  way,  that  the  back  of  his  coat  has 
t 

a  one-eyed  look,  by  reason  of  the  deficiency  of  a 
button  ;  and  she  will  add,  in  a  compassionate  tone, 
"  But  what  else  can  be  expected,  when  a  man  has 
no  wife  to  look  after  him  ?"  Another,  still  more 
mischievous,  who  happens  to  know  of  his  attend- 
ing the  Fair,  and  trying  to  buy  various  articles 
otherwise  appropriated,  will  sometimes  offer  im- 
pertinent consolation  ;  saying,  "  Don't  be  discour- 
aged. Try  again.  Perhaps  you  '11  have  better 
luck  next  time.  You  know  the  proverb  says, 
There  never  was  so  silly  a  Jack  but  there 's  as 
silly  a  Gill."  Then  again,  the  French  phrase  for 
old  bachelor,  Vieux  Gar^on,  translates  itself  into 
right  impudent  English.  Why  on  earth  should  a 
man  be  called  the  Old  Boy,  merely  because  he  has 
not  seen  fit  to  marry  ?  when  it  is  either  because 
he  don't  like  the  market,  or  wants  to  look  further, 
in  order  to  make  sure  of  getting  his  money's 
worth  in  the  article. 

I  have  spoken  facetiously,  but  it  may  well  be 
excused.  Women  have  for  so  many  generations 
been  the  subject  of  pitiless  jokes,  rung  through  all 
manner  of  changes,  and  not  always  in  the  best 
taste,  that  it  is  pardonable  to  throw  back  a  few 
jests,  provided  it  be  done  in  sport,  rather  than  in 
malice.  The  simple  fact  is,  however,  that  what  I 


OLD  BACHELORS.  229 

have  said  of  unmarried  women  is  also  true  of  un- 
married men  ;  their  being  single  is  often  the  result 
of  superior  delicacy  and  refinement  of  feeling. 
Those  who  are  determined  to  marry,  will  usually 
accomplish  their  object,  sooner  or  later,  while 
those  who  shrink  from  making  wedlock  a  mere 
convenience,  unsanctified  by  affection,  will  prefer 
isolation,  though  they  sometimes  find  it  sad.  I 
am  now  thinking  of  one,  who,  for  many  reasons 
would  probably  be  accepted  by  ninety-nine  women 
out  of  a  hundred.  I  once  said  to  him,  "  How  is 
it,  that  a  man  of  your  domestic  tastes  and  affec- 
tionate disposition  has  never  married  ? "  He 
hesitated  a  moment,  then  drew  from  under  his 
vest  the  miniature  of  a  very  lovely  woman,  and 
placed  it  in  my  hand.  I  looked  up  with  an 
inquiring  glance,  to  which  he  replied  :  "  Yes, 
perhaps  it  might  have  been  ;  perhaps  it  ought  to 
have  been.  But  I  had  duties  to  perform  toward 
my  widowed  mother,  which  made  me  doubt 
whether  it  were  justifiable  to  declare  my  feelings 
to  the  young  lady.  Meanwhile,  another  offered 
himself.  She  married  him,  and  is,  I  believe, 
happy.  I  have  never  seen  another  woman  who 
awakened  in  me  the  same  feelings,  and  so  I  have 
remained  unmarried." 

I  knew  twin  brothers,  who  became  attached  to 
the  same  lady.  One  was  silent,  for  his  brother's 
sake  ;  but  he  never  married  ;  and  through  life  he 
loved  and  assisted  his  brother's  children,  as  if  they 


230  OLD  BACHELORS. 

had  been  his  own.  There  are  many  such  facts  to 
prove  that  self-sacrifice  and  constancy  are  far  from 
being  exclusively  feminine  virtues. 

O  *• 

But  my  impression  is,  that  there  is  a  larger  pro- 
portion of  unmarried  women  than  of  unmarried 
men,  who  lead  unselfish,  useful  lives.  I,  at  least, 
have  happened  to  know  of  more  "Aunt  Kindlys," 
than  Uncle  Kindlys.  Women,  by  the  nature  of 
their  in-door  habits  and  occupations,  can  nestle 
themselves  into  the  inmost  of  other  people's  fami- 
lies, much  more  readily  than  men.  The  house- 
hold inmate,  who  cuts  paper-dolls  to  amuse  fretful 
children,  or  soothes  them  with  lullabies  when  they 
are  tired,  —  who  sews  on  buttons  for  the  father, 
when  he  is  in  a  hurry,  or  makes  goodies  for  the  in- 
valid mother,  —  becomes  part  and  parcel  of  the 
household  ;  whereas  a  bachelor  is  apt  to  be  a  sort 
of  appendage  ;  beloved  and  agreeable,  perhaps,  but 
still  something  on  the  outside.  He  is  like  moss  on 
the  tree,  very  pretty  and  ornamental,  especially 
when  lighted  up  by  sunshine  ;  but  no  inherent 
part  of  the  tree,  essential  to  its  growth.  Some- 
times, indeed,  one  meets  with  a  genial  old  bachelor, 
who  cannot  enter  the  house  of  a  married  friend,  or 
relative,  without  having  the  children  climb  into  his 
lap,  pull  out  his  watch,  and  search  his  pocket  for 
sugar-plums.  But  generally,  it  must  be  confessed 
that  a  Vieux  Grar$on  acts  like  an  Old  Boy  when 
he  attempts  to  make  himself  useful  in  the  house. 
His  efforts  to  quiet  crying  babies  are  laughable, 


OLD  BACHELORS.  231 

and  invariably  result  in  making  the  babies  cry 
more  emphatically.  A  dignified,  scholastic  bache- 
lor, who  had  been  spending  the  night  with  a  mar- 
ried friend,  was  leaving  his  house  after  breakfast, 
when  a  lovely  little  girl  of  four  or  five  summers 
peeped  from  the  shrubbery,  and  called  out,  "  Good 
morning  !  "  "  Good  morning,  child  !  "  replied  he, 
with  the  greatest  solemnity  of  manner,  and  passed 
on.  A  single  woman  would  have  said,  "  Good 
morning,  dear  !  "  or  "  Good  morning,  little  one  !  " 
But  the  bachelor  was  as  dignified  as  if  he  had 
been  making  an  apostrophe  to  the  stars.  Yet  he 
had  a  great,  kind  heart,  and  was  a  bachelor  be- 
cause that  heart  was  too  refined  to  easily  forget  a 
first  impression. 

Bachelors  do  not  become  an  outside  appendage, 
if  they  are  fortunate  enough  to  have  an  unmarried 
sister,  with  whom  they  can  form  one  household. 
There  is  such  a  couple  in  my  neighborhood,  as 
cozy  and  comfortable  as  any  wedded  pair,  and 
quite  as  unlikely  to  separate,  as  if  the  law  bound 
them  together.  The  sister  is  a  notable  body,  who 
does  well  whatever  her  hands  find  to  do  ;  and  the 
brother  adopts  wise  precautions  against  tedious 
bours.  He  was  a  teacher  in  his  youth,  but  is  a 
miller  now.  An  old  mill  is  always  a  picturesque 
object,  standing  as  it  must  in  the  midst  of  running 
water,  whose  drops  sparkle  and  gleam  in  sunlight 
and  moonlight.  And  our  bachelor's  mill  is  hidden 
in  a  wood,  where  birds  love  to  build  their  nests,  and 


232  OLD  BACHELORS. 

innumerable  insects'  are  busy  among  ferns  and 
mosses.  The  miller  is  busy,  too,  with  a  lathe  to 
fill  up  the  moments  unoccupied  by  the  work  of  the 
mill.  He  has  made  a  powerful  telescope  for  him- 
self, and  returns  to  his  home  in  the  evening  to 
watch  the  changing  phases  of  the  planets,  or  to 
entertain  his  neighbors  with  a  vision  of  Saturn  sail- 
ing through  boundless  fields  of  ether  in  his  beautiful 
luminous  ring.  He  can  also  discourse  sweet  music 
to  his  sister,  by  means  of  a  parlor  seraphine. 

I  know  another  bachelor,  who  finds  time  to  be  a 
benefactor  to  his  neighborhood,  though  his  life  is 
full  of  labors  and  cares.  In  addition  to  the  per- 
petual work  of  a  farm,  he  devotes  himself  with  filial 
tenderness  to  a  widowed  mother  and  invalid  aunts, 
and  yet  he  is  always  ready  wherever  help  or  sym- 
pathy is  needed.  If  a  poor  widow  needs  wood  cut, 
he  promptly  supplies  the  want,  and  few  men  with 
a  carriage  and  four  are  so  ready  to  furnish  a  horse 
for  any  kindly  service.  The  children  all  know  his 
sleigh,  and  call  after  him  for  a  ride.  None  of  his 

o      ' 

animals  have  the  forlorn,  melancholy  look  which 
indicates  a  hard  master.  The  expression  of  his 
countenance  would  never  suggest  to  any  one  the 
condition  of  an  old  bachelor  ;  on  the  contrary,  you 
would  suppose  he  had  long  been  accustomed  to 
look  into  the  eyes  of  little  ones  clambering  upon 
his  knees  for  a  kiss.  This  is  because  he  adopts  all 
little  humans  into  his  heart. 

I   presume  it   will  generally  be    admitted   that 


OLD  BACHELORS.  233 

bachelors  are  more  apt  to  be  epicures,  than  are  un- 
married women.  In  the  first  place,  they  have  fewer 
details  of  employment  to  occupy  their  thoughts  per- 
petually ;  and  secondly,  they  generally  have  greater 
pecuniary  means  for  self-indulgence.  The  gour- 
mand, who  makes  himself  unhappy,  and  disturbs 
everybody  around  him,  if  his  venison  is  cooked  the 
fortieth  part  of  a  minute  too  long,  is  less  agreeable, 
and  not  less  ridiculous  than  the  old  fop,  who  wears 
false  whiskers,  and  cripples  his  feet  with  tight 
boots. 

There  is  a  remedy  for  this,  and  for  all  other  self- 
ishness and  vanity  ;  it  is  to  go  out  of  ourselves, 
and  be  busy  with  helping  others.  Petty  annoy- 
ances slip  away  and  are  forgotten  when  the  mind 
is  thus  occupied.  The  wealthy  merchant  would 
find  it  an  agreeable  variation  to  the  routine  of 
business  to  interest  himself  in  the  welfare  and  im- 
provement of  the  sailors  he  employs.  The  pros- 
perous farmer  would  find  mind  and  heart  enlarged 
by  helping  to  bring  into  general  use  new  and  im- 
proved varieties  of  fruits  and  vegetables  ;  not  for 
mere  money-making,  but  for  the  common  good. 
And  all  would  be  happier  for  taking  an  active 
interest  in  the  welfare  of  their  country,  and  the 
progress  of  the  world. 

Nothing  can  be  more  charming  than  Dickens's 
description  of  the  Cheeryble  Brothers,  "  whose 
goodness  was  so  constantly  a  diffusing  of  itself  over 
everywhere." 


234  OLD  BACHELORS. 

"  '  Brother  Ned,'  said  Mr.  Cheeryble,  tapping 
with  his  knuckles,  and  stooping  to  listen,  '  are 
you  busy,  my  dear  brother  ?  or  can  you  spare  time 
for  a  word  or  two  with  me  ?  ' 

414  Brother  Charles,  my  dear  fellow,'  replied  a 
voice  from  within,  '  don't  ask  me  such  a  question, 
but  come  in  directly.'  Its  tones  were  so  exactly 
like  that  which  had  just  spoken,  that  Nicholas 
started,  and  almost  thought  it  was  the  same. 

"  They  went  in  without  further  parley.  What 
was  the  amazement  of  Nicholas,  when  his  con- 
ductor advanced  and  exchanged  a  warm  greet- 
ing with  another  old  gentleman,  the  very  type 
and  model  of  himself ;  the  same  face,  the  same 
figure,  the  same  coat,  waistcoat,  and  neckcloth,  the 
same  breeches  and  gaiters  ;  nay,  there  was  the 
very  same  white  hat  hanging  against  the  wall.  No- 
body could  have  doubted  their  being  twin  brothers. 
As  they  shook  each  other  by  the  hand,  the  face  of 
each  lighted  up  with  beaming  looks  of  affection, 
which  would  have  been  most  delightful  to  behold 
in  infants,  and  which  in  men  so  old  was  inexpres- 
sibly touching. 

u  '  Brother  Ned,'  said  Charles,  *  here  is  a  young 
friend  that  we  must  assist.  We  must  make  proper 
inquiries  into  his  statements,  and  if  they  are  con- 
firmed, as  they  will  be,  we  must  assist  him.' 

"  k  It  is  enough,  my  dear  brother,  that  you  say 
we  should.  When  you  say  that,  no  further  in- 
quiries are  needed.  He  shall  be  assisted.' 


OLD  BACHELORS.  235 

"'I've  a  plan,  my  dear  brother,  I've  a  plan,' 
said  Charles.  '  Tim  Linkinwater  is  getting  old  ; 
and  Tim  has  been  a  faithful  servant,  brother  Ned ; 
and  I  don't  think  pensioning  Tim's  mother  and 
sister,  and  buying  a  little  tomb  for  the  family  when 
his  poor  brother  died,  was  a  sufficient  recompense 
for  his  faithful  services.' 

"  '  No,  no,'  replied  the  other,  '  not  half  enough  ; 
not  half.' 

"  '  If  we  could  lighten  Tim's  duties,'  said  the 
old  gentleman,  '  and  prevail  upon  him  to  go  into 
the  country  now  and  then,  and  sleep  in  the  fresh 
air  two  or  three  times  a  week,  Tim  Linkinwater 
would  grow  young  again  in  time  ;  and  he  's  three 
good  years  our  senior  now.  Old  Tim  Linkinwa- 
ter young  again  !  Eh,  brother  Ned,  eh  ?  Why, 
I  recollect  old  Tim  Linkinwater  quite  a  little  boy  ; 
don't  you  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Poor  Tim  !  Poor  Tim  ! ' 
and  the  fine  old  fellows  laughed  pleasantly  together  ; 
each  with  a  tear  of  regard  for  old  Tim  Linkinwa- 
ter standing  in  his  eye. 

"  '  But  you  must  hear  this  young  gentleman's 
story,'  said  Charles  ;  '  you  '11  be  very  much  af- 
fected, brother  Ned,  remembering  the  time  when 
we  were  two  friendless  lads,  and  earned  our  first 
shilling  in  this  great  city.' 

"  The  twins  pressed  each  other's  hands  in  silence, 
and,  in  his  own  homely  manner,  Charles  related 
the  particulars  he  had  just  heard  from  Nicholas. 
It  is  no  disparagement  to  the  young  man  to  say, 


236  OLD  BACHELORS. 

that,  at  every  fresh  expression  of  their  kindness  and 
sympathy,  he  could  only  wave  his  hand  and  sob 
like  a  child. 

"  '  But  we  are  keeping  our  young  friend  too 
long,  my  dear  brother,'  said  Charles.  '  His  poor 
mother  and  sister  will  be  anxious  for  his  return. 
So  good  by  for  the  present.  Good  by.  No,  not 
a  word  now.  Good  by.'  And  the  brothers  hur- 
ried him  out,  shaking  hands  with  him  all  the  way, 
and  affecting,  very  unsuccessfully  (for  they  were 
poor  hands  at  deception),  to  be  wholly  unconscious 
of  the  feelings  that  mastered  him. 

"  The  next  day,  he  was  appointed  to  the  vacant 
stool  in  the  counting-house  of  Cheeryble  Brothers, 

O  »/ 

with  a  salary  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds 
a  year.  '  And  I  think,  my  dear  brother,'  said 
Charles,  '  that  if  we  were  to  let  them  that  little 
cottage  at  Bow,  something  under  the  usual  rent  — 
Eh,  brother  Ned  ?  ' 

"  '  For  nothing  at  all,'  said  his  brother,  4  We 
are  rich,  and  should  be  ashamed  to  touch  the  rent 
under  such  circumstances  as  these.  For  nothing 

c? 

at  all,  my  dear  brother.' 

"  '  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  say  something,' 
suggested  the  other,  mildly.  '  We  might  say  fif- 
teen or  twenty  pound  ;  and  if  it  was  punctually 
paid,  make  it  up  to  them  in  some  other  way.  It 
would  help  to  preserve  habits  of  frugality,  you 
know,  and  remove  any  painful  sense  of  over- 
whelming obligation.  And  I  might  secretly  ad- 


OLD  BACHELORS.  237 

vance  a  small  loan  toward  a  little  furniture  ;  and 
you  might  secretly  advance  another  small  loan, 
brother  Ned.  And  if  we  find  them  doing  well  we 
can  change  the  loans  into  gifts  ;  carefully,  and  by 
degrees,  without  pressing  upon  them  too  much. 
What  do  you  say  now,  brother  ?  ' 

"  Brother  Ned  gave  his  hand  upon  it,  and  not 
only  said  it  should  be  done,  but  had  it  done.  And 
in  one  short  week,  Nicholas  took  possession  of  his 
stool,  and  his  mother  and  sister  took  possession  of 
the  house  ;  and  all  was  hope,  bustle,  and  light- 
heartedness." 

There  are  Cheery ble  old  bachelors  in  real  life  ; 
genial  souls,  and  genuine  benefactors  to  mankind. 
When    they   are    so,   I    think   they    deserve 
more  credit  than  married  men  of  similar 
characters  ;    for   the   genial  virtues 
are  fostered  by  kindly  domes- 
tic  influences,  as   fruit   is 
matured  and  sweet- 
ened   by    the 
sunshine. 


THE  dog  in  the  kennel  growls  at  his  fleas ;  the 
dog  that  is  busy  hunting  does  not  feel  them. 

CHINESE  PKOVERB 


TAKING    IT    EASY. 
BY  GEORGE   H.    CLARK. 

ADMIT  that  I  am  slightly  bald,  — 
Pray,  who 's  to  blame  for  that  ? 
And  who  is  wiser  for  the  fact, 

Until  I  lift  my  hat? 
Beneath  the  brim  my  barbered  locks 

Fall  in  a  careless  way, 
Wherein  my  watchful  wife  can  spy 
No  lurking  threads  of  gray. 

What  though,  to  read  compactest  print, 

I  'm  forced  to  hold  my  book 
A  little  farther  off  than  when 

Life's  first  degree  I  took  ? 
A  yoke  of  slightly  convex  lens 

The  needful  aid  bestows, 
And  you  should  see  how  wise  I  look 

With  it  astride  my  nose. 

Don't  talk  of  the  infernal  pangs 
That  rheumatism  brings ! 


TAKING  IT  EASY.  £39 

I  'm  getting  used  to  pains  and  aches, 

And  all  those  sort  of  things. 
And  when  the  imp  Sciatica 

Makes  his  malicious  call, 
I  do  not  need  an  almanac 

To  tell  me  it  is  fall. 

Besides,  it  gives  one  quite  an  air 

To  travel  with  a  cane, 
And  makes  folk  think  you  "  well  to  do," 

Although  you  are  in  pain. 
A  fashionable  hat  may  crown 

Genteelest  coat  and  vest, 
But  ah !  the  sturdy  stick  redeems 

And  sobers  all  the  rest. 

A  man  deprived  of  natural  sleep 

Becomes  a  stupid  elf, 
And  only  steals  from  Father  Time 

To  stultify  himself. 
So,  if  you  'd  be  a  jovial  soul, 

And  laugh  at  life's  decline, 
Take  my  advice,  —  turn  off  the  gas, 

And  go  to  bed  at  nine  ! 

An  easy-cushioned  rocking-chair 

Suits  me  uncommon  well ; 
And  so  do  liberal  shoes,  —  like  these,  — 

"With  room  for  corns  to  swell ; 
I  cotton  to  the  soft  lamb's-wool 

That  lines  my  gloves  of  kid, 
And  love  elastic  home-made  socks,  — 

Indeed,  I  always  did. 


240  TAKING  IT  EASY. 

But  what  disturbs  me  more  than  all 

Is,  that  sarcastic  boys 
Prefer  to  have  me  somewhere  else, 

When  they  are  at  their  noise ; 
That  while  I  try  to  look  and  act 

As  like  them  as  I  can, 
They  will  persist  in  mister-ing  me, 

And  calling  me  a  man  ! 


TRUE  —  Time  will  seam  and  blanch  my  brow. 

"Well,  I  shall  sit  with  aged  men, 
And  my  good  glass  will  tell  me  how 

A  grisly  beard  becomes  me  then. 

And  should  no  foul  dishonor  lie 
Upon  my  head,  when  I  am  gray, 

Love  yet  shall  watch  my  fading  eye, 
And  smooth  the  path  of  my  decay. 

Then  haste  thee,  Time,  —  't  is  kindness  all 
That  speeds  thy  winged  feet  so  fast ; 

Thy  pleasures  stay  not  till  they  pall, 
And  all  thy  pains  are  quickly  past. 

Thou  fliest  and  bear'st  away  our  woes, 
And,  as  thy  shadowy  train  depart, 

The  memory  of  sorrow  grows 
A  lighter  burden  on  the  heart. 

W.  C.  BRYANT. 


OLD    AUNTY. 


THE  following  is  a  true  story.  I  well  remember  the  worthy 
old  woman,  who  sat  in  Washington  Park,  behind  a  table  covered 
with  apples  and  nuts.  I  also  know  the  family  of  the  little 
Joanna,  who  used  to  carry  her  a  cup  of  hot  tea  and  warm  rolls 
from  one  of  the  big  houses  in  the  adjoining  Square,  and  who  got 
up  a  petition  to  the  Mayor  in  her  behalf.  It  is  a  humble  pic- 
ture ;  but  a  soft,  warm  light  falls  on  it  from  poor  Old  Aunty's 
self-sacrificing  devotion  to  her  orphans,  and  from  the  mutual  love 
between  her  and  the  children  of  the  neighborhood. 

L.  M.  C. 


;LL  the  children  knew  Old  Aunty. 
Every  day,  in  rain  or  shine,  she  sat 
there  in  the  Park,  with  her  little  store 
of  candies,  cakes,  and  cigars,  spread  on 
a  wooden  box.  Her  cheerful  smile  and  hearty 
'•  God  bless  you !  ''  were  always  ready  for  the 
children,  whether  they  bought  of  her  or  not.  If 
they  stopped  to  purchase,  she  gave  right  generous 
measure,  heaping  the  nuts  till  they  rolled  off  the  top 
of  the  pint,  and  often  throwing  in  a  cake  or  stick 
of  candy ;  so  generous  was  her  heart. 

11  p 


242  OLD  AUNTY. 

Like  all  unselfish  people,  Aunty  was  happy  as 
the  days  are  long.  Had  you  followed  her  home 
at  night,  you  would  have  seen  her  travel  down  a 
poor  old  street,  narrow  and  musty,  and  climb  the 
broken  stairs  of  a  poor  old  house  that  was  full  of 
other  lodgers,  some  of  them  noisy,  disorderly,  and 
intemperate.  When  she  opened  the  creaking  door 
of  her  one  small  room,  you  would  have  seen  the 
boards  loose  in  the  floor,  little  furniture,  very  little 
that  looked  like  rest  or  comfort,  like  home  for  a 
tired  body  that  had  toiled  full  seventy  years,  and 
had  once  known  the  pleasure  of  a  cheerful  fireside 
and  a  full  house. 

But  presently  you  would  hear  the  patter  of  little 
feet,  and  the  music  of  children's  voices,  and  little 
hands  at  work  with  the  rusty  door-latch,  till  open 
it  flew.  You  would  have  heard  two  merry  little 
creatures  shouting,  "  Granny  's  come  home  !  Dear 
Granny  's  come  home !  "  You  would  have  seen 
them  dancing  about  her,  clapping  their  hands,  and 
saying,  "  O  we're  so  glad,  so  glad  you  've  come 
back  !  "  These  are  the  orphan  grandchildren,  to 
feed  and  clothe  whom  Old  Aunty  is  willing  to 
walk  so  far,  and  sit  so  long  in  the  cold,  and  earn 
penny  by  penny,  as  the  days  go  by. 

She  kindles  no  fire,  for  it  is  not  winter  yet,  and 
the  poor  can  eat  their  supper  cold  :  but  the  chil- 
dren's love  and  a  well-spent  day  kindle  a  warmth 
and  a  light  in  the  good  dame's  heart,  such  as  I 
fear  seldom  beams  in  some  of  those  great  stately 
houses  in  the  Square. 


OLD  AUNTY.  243 

With  such  a  home,  it  is  not  strange  that  Aunty 
liked  to  sit  under  the  pleasant  trees  of  the  Parade 
Ground  (for  so  the  Park  was  called),  breathe  the 
fresh  air,  and  watch-  the  orderly  people  going  to 
and  fro.  Many  stopped  to  exchange  a  word  with 
her ;  even  the  police  officers,  in  their  uniforms, 
liked  a  chat  with  the  sociable  old  lady  ;  and  the 
children,  on  their  way  to  school,  were  never  too 
hurried  for  a  "  Good  morning,  Aunty  !  "  that 
would  leave  a  smile  on  her  wrinkled  face,  long 
after  they  had  bounded  out  of  sight. 

It  was  nearly  as  good  as  if  Aunty  had  a  farm 
of  her  own  ;  for  it  is  always  country  up  in  the  sky, 
you  know  ;  in  the  beautiful  blue,  among  the  soft 
clouds,  and  along  the  tops  of  the  trees.  Even  in 
that  dismal,  musty  street,  where  she  lived,  she 
could  see  the  sunshine,  and  the  wonderful  stars  at 
evening.  Then  all  about  the  Parade  Ground  stood 
the  fine  great  houses  of  Washington  Square  ;  and 
leading  from  it,  that  Fifth  Avenue,  which  is  said 
to  be  the  most  splendid  street  in  the  world,  —  whole 
miles  of  palaces. 

"  Don't  I  enjoy  them  all,  without  having  the 
care  of  them  ?  "  Aunty  used  to  say. 

When  we  asked  if  she  did  n't  grow  tired  of  sit- 
ting there  all  day,  she  would  answer,  "  Sure,  and 
who  is  n't  tired  sometimes,  rich  or  poor  ?  " 

"  But  is  not  the  ground  damp,  Aunty  ?  " 

"  I  expect  it  is,  especially  after  a  rain  ;  but  what 
then  ?  It  only  gives  me  the  rheumatism  ;  and  that 
is  all  the  trouble  I  have.  God  be  praised  !  " 


244  OLD  AUNTY. 

"  But  it  is  so  cold  now,  Aunty  ;  so  late  in  No- 
vember ;  and  you  are  so  old  ;  it  is  n't  safe." 

"  O,  but  it 's  safer  than  to  have  my  children 
starve  or  turn  beggars,  I  guess.  I  have  my  old 
umbrella  when  it  rains  or  snows,  and  them  's  my 
harvest-days,  you  see  ;  for  there  's  a  deal  of  pity 
in  the  world.  And  besides,  the  children  in  that 
house  yonder,  often  bring  me  out  a  hot  cup  of  tea 
at  luncheon-time,  or  cakes  of  good  warm  bread  in 
the  morning.  Let  me  alone  for  being  happy  !  " 

But  earthly  happiness  hangs  on  a  slight  thread. 
There  came  a  change  in  the  city  government  ; 
Aunty's  good  friends  among  the  police  were  re- 
moved ;  the  new  officers  proved  their  zeal  by  mak- 
ing every  change  they  could  think  of.  "  New 
brooms  sweep  clean,"  and  they  swept  off  from  the 
Parade  Ground,  poor  Aunty,  and  all  her  stock  in 
trade. 

But  in  one  of  the  houses  opposite  Aunty's  cor- 
ner of  the  Park,  lived  a  family  of  children  who 
took  especial  interest  in  her  ;  Charlie,  Willie,  Vin- 
cent, and  Joanna,  and  I  can't  tell  how  many  more. 
It  was  they  who  christened  her  "  Aunty,"  till  all 
the  neighbors,  old  and  young,  took  up  the  name  ; 
it  was  they  who,  on  wintry  days,  had  offered  her 
the  hot  cup  of  tea,  and  the  warm  bread.  They 
almost  felt  as  if  she  were  an  own  relative,  or  a 
grown-up  child  given  them  to  protect  and  comfort. 

One  morning,  Joanna  looked  up  from  the  break- 
fast-table, and  exclaimed,  u  There  !  Aunty  is  not 
in  the  Park  ;  they  have  sent  her  away  I " 


OLD  AUNTY.  £45 

The  children  had  feared  this  change.  You  may 
guess  how  eagerly  they  ran  to  the  window,  and 
with  what  mournful  faces  they  exclaimed  again  and 
again,  "  It  is  too  bad  !  "  They  would  eat  no  more 
breakfast;  they  could  think  and  -talk  of  nothing 
but  Aunty's  wrongs. 

It  was  a  bleak  December  day,  and  there  the 
poor  old  woman  sat  outside  the  iron  railing,  no 
pleasant  trees  above  her,  but  dust  and  dead  leaves 
blowing  wildly  about.  Charlie  said,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes,  a  It's  enough  to  blind  poor  Old  Aunty." 

"  It's  enough  to  ruin  her  candy,"  said  Joanna, 
who  was  a  practical  little  body.  She  had  a  look 
in  her  eyes  that  was  better  than  tears  ;  a  look  that 
seemed  to  say,  "  Her  candy  shall  not  be  ruined. 
Aunty  shall  go  back  to  her  rightful  place." 

We  did  not  know  about  Aunty's  having  any 
right  to  her  old  seat ;  but  we  all  agreed  that  it  was 
far  better  for  her  to  sit  near  the  path  that  ran  slant- 
wise through  the  Park,  and  was  trodden  by  hun- 
dreds and  thousands  of  feet  every  day  :  clerks 
going  to  Sixth  Avenue,  and  merchants  to  Broad- 
way ;  newsmen,  porters,  school-children,  teachers, 
preachers,  invalids  ;  there  was  no  end  to  the  people. 
Many  a  cake  or  apple  they  had  taken  from  Aunty's 
board,  and  in  their  haste,  or  kindness,  never  waited 
for  change  to  the  bit  of  silver  they  tossed  her. 

In  New  York  every  one  is  in  such  a  hurry  that 
unless  you  are  almost  under  their  feet  they  cannot 
see  you.  For  this  reason,  on  the  day  of  Aunty's 


246  OLD  AUNTY. 

absence,  she  had  the  grief  of  watching  many  old 
friends  and  customers  go  past,  give  a  surprised  look 
at  her  old  seat,  and  hurry  on,  never  observing  her, 
though  she  sat  so  near. 

A  few,  who  espied  Aunty,  stopped  in  their  haste 
to  hear  her  stoiy  and  condole  with  her.  The 
children  found  her  out,  you  may  be  sure,  and 
gathered  about  her,  telling  her  how  much  too  bad 
it  was  ;  and  how  they  should  like  to  set  the  police- 
men, Mayor  and  all,  out  there  on  a  bench  in  the 
dust,  for  one  half-hour  ;  but  what  could  children 
do  ?  So  they  passed  on.  Some  of  the  fashionable 
ladies  in  the  Square  stopped  to  tell  Aunty  how  they 
pitied  her,  begged  her  not  to  feel  unhappy,  and 
passed  on.  Only  Trouble  stood  still  and  frowned 
at  her  ;  all  the  rest  passed  on. 

No,  not  all ;  not  our  little  Joanna.  She  came 
home  with  a  thoughtful  face,  and  asked,  very  ener- 
getically, "  What  do  you  mean  to  do  about  Aunty  ? 
It  is  a  shame  that  all  these  rich,  strong,  grown- 
up people  on  the  Square,  cannot  stand  up  for  the 
rights  of  one  poor  old  woman." 

We  told  her  the  city  was  richer  than  the  rich- 
est, stronger  than  the  strongest. 

"  O,"  persisted  Joanna,  "•  if  we,  or  any  of  them, 
wanted  a  new  lamp-post,  or  a  hydrant  mended,  \ve 
should  muster  strength  fast  enough.  And  now, 
what 's  to  become  of  Aunty  and  her  poor  children? 
that  is  all  I  ask." 

We  smiled  at  Joey's  enthusiasm,  and  thought  it 


OLD  AUNTY.  247 

would  soon  pass  away.  When  she  came  home 
from  school  that  afternoon,  with  a  whole  troop  of 
little  girls,  we  thought  it  had  already  passed  away. 
As  they  ran  down  the  area-steps,  we  wondered  what 
amusement  they  were  planning  now.  Presently, 
Joanna  came  up-stairs,  her  eyes  looking  very 
bright,  and  said,  "  Please  give  me  the  inkstand." 

We  asked,  "•  What  now,child?" 

"  O,  do  just  give  me  the  inkstand!"  said  she, 
impatiently.  "  We  are  not  in  any  mischief;  we 
are  attending  to  business'';  and  off  she  ran. 

Before  very  long  she  appeared  again  with  a 
paper,  her  black  eyes  burning  like  stars.  "  There, 
mother,  —  and  all  of  you,  —  you  must  sign  this 
letter,  as  quick  as  ever  you  can.  I  have  made  a 
statement  of  Aunty's  case  ;  all  the  children  have 
signed  their  names  ;  and  now  we  are  going  to 
eveiy  house  in  the  Square,  till  we  have  a  good 
lon^  list." 

O 

-And  what  then?" 

"  I  shall  ask  father  to  take  it  to  the  Mayor.  He 
wont  be  so  unreasonable  as  to  refuse  us  ;  no  one 
could." 

Joanna  had  written  out  Aunty's  story,  in  her 
own  simple,  direct  way.  She  told  how  this  nice, 
neat,  pleasant  old  person  had  been  turned  out  of 
the  Park  ;  how  the  children  all  had  liked  her,  and 
found  it  convenient  to  buy  at  her  table  ;  and  how 
she  never  scolded  if  they  dropped  papers  and  nut- 
shells about,  but  took  her  own  little  pan  and  brush 


248  OLD  AUNTY. 

and  swept  them  away  ;  she  was  so  orderly.  She 
ended  her  letter  with  a  petition  that  the  Mayor 
would  be  so  good  to  the  children,  and  this  excel- 
lent old  grandmother,  as  to  let  her  go  back  to  her 
old  seat. 

If  the  Mayor  could  refuse,  we  could  not ;  so 
our  names  went  down  on  the  paper  ;  and  before 
the  ink  was  dry,  off  ran  Joanna.  The  hall-door 
slammed,  and  we  saw  her  with  all  her  friends  run 
up  the  steps  of  the  neighboring  houses,  full  of 
excitement  and  hope. 

Nearly  all  the  families  that  lived  in  the  great 
houses  of  Washington  Square  were  rich ;  and  some 
of  them  proud  and  selfish,  perhaps ;  for  money 
sometimes  does  sad  mischief  to  the  hearts  of  peo- 
ple. We  asked  ourselves,  "  What  will  they  care 
for  old  Aunty  ?  " 

Whatever  their  tempers  might  be,  however, 
when  the  lady  or  gentleman  came  and  saw  the 
bright,  eager  faces,  and  the  young  eyes  glistening 
with  sympathy,  and  the  little  hands  pointing  out 
there  at  the  aged  woman  on  the  sidewalk, —  while 
they  were  in  their  gilded  and  cushioned  houses,  — 
they  could  not  refuse  a  name,  and  the  list  swelled 
fast. 

At  one  house  lived  three  Jewesses,  who  were  so 
pleased  with  the  children's  scheme,  that  they  not 
only  gave  their  own  names,  but  obtained  many 
more.  "  They  are  Jews,  ma'am,  but  they  're 
Christians  !  "  said  Aunty  afterwards  ;  by  which 


OLD  AUNTY.  249 

she  meant,  it  is  not  names,  but  actions,  that  prove 
us  followers  of  the  loving,  compassionate  Christ. 

So  large  was  the  Square,  so  many  houses  to 
visit,  that  the  ladies'  help  was  very  welcome. 
They  could  state  Aunty's  case  with  propriety ; 
and  what  with  their  words  and  the  children's 
eloquent  faces,  all  went  well. 

So  the  paper  was  filled  with  signatures,  and  Jo- 
anna's father  took  it  to  the  Mayor.  He  smiled, 
and  signed  his  name,  in  big  letters,  to  an  order 
that  Aunty  should  return  at  once  to  her  old  seat, 
and  have  all  the  privileges  she  had  ever  enjoyed  in 
the  Park ;  and  the  next  morning  there  she  was,  in 
her  own  old  corner  ! 

As  soon  as  she  came,  the  children  ran  out  to 
welcome  her.  As  she  shook  hands  with  them,  and 
looked  up  in  their  pleased  faces,  we  saw  her  again 
and  again  wipe  the  tears  from  her  old  eyes. 

Everybody  that  spoke  to  Aunty  that  day,  con- 
gratulated her  ;  and  when  the  schools  in  the  neigh- 
borhood were  dismissed,  the  scholars  and  teachers 
went  together,  in  procession,  and  bought  everything 
Aunty  had  to  sell ;  till  the  poor  old  woman  could 
only  cover  her  face  and  cry,  to  think  that  she  had 
so  many  friends.  If  ever  you  go  to  the  Parade 
Ground,  in  New  York,  you  may  talk  with  old 
Aunty,  and  ask  her  if  this  story  is  not  true. 

B. 


11* 


RICHARD    AND    KATE. 


A    SUFFOLK    BALLAD. 

The  following  verses  were  written  by  Robert  Bloomficld,  an 
English  shoemaker,  more  than  sixty  years  ago,  when  the  work- 
ing-classes of  England  had  far  more  limited  opportunities  for 
obtaining  education  than  they  now  have.  Criticism  could  easily 
point  out  imperfections  in  the  style  of  this  simple  story,  but  the 
consolations  of  age  among  the  poor  are  presented  in  such  a 
touching  manner  that  it  is  worthy  of  preservation. 


,  Goody  !  stop  your  humdrum  wheel  ! 
Sweep  up  your  oils,  and  get  your  hat  ! 
Old  joys  revived  once  more  I  feel, 

'T  is  Fair-day  !  Ay,  and  more  than  that  ! 

"  Have  you  forgot,  Kate,  prithee  say, 
How  many  seasons  here  we  Ve  tarried  ? 

'T  is  forty  years,  this  very  day, 

Since  yon  and  I,  old  girl,  were  married. 

"  Look  out  !     The  sun  shines  warm  and  bright  ; 

The  stiles  are  low,  the  paths  all  dry  : 
I  know  you  cut  your  corns  last  night  ; 

Come  !  he  as  free  from  care  as  I. 


RICHARD  AND  KATE.  251 

"  For  I  'm  resolved  once  more  to  see 

That  place  where  we  so  often  met ; 
Though  few  have  had  more  cares  than  we, 

We  've  none  just  now  to  make  us  fret." 

Kate  scorned  to  damp  the  generous  flame, 
That  warmed  her  aged  partner's  breast ; 

Yet,  ere  determination  came, 

She  thus  some  trifling  doubts  expressed  :  — 

"  Night  will  come  on,  when  seated  snug, 
And  you  've  perhaps  begun  some  tale  ; 

Can  you  then  leave  your  dear  stone  mug  ? 
Leave  all  the  folks,  and  all  the  ale  ?  " 

"  Ay,  Kate,  I  wool ;  because  I  know, 

Though  time  has  been  we  both  could  run, 

Such  days  are  gone  and  over  now. 
I  only  mean  to  see  the  fun." 

His  mattock  he  behind  the  door, 

And  hedging  gloves,  again  replaced  ; 

And  looked  across  the  yellow  moor, 

And  urged  his  tottering  spouse  to  haste. 

The  day  was  up,  the  air  serene, 

The  firmament  without  a  cloud  ; 
The  bees  hummed  o'er  the  level  green, 

Where  knots  of  trembling  cowslips  bowed. 

And  Richard  thus,  with  heart  elate, 
As  past  things  rushed  across  his  mind, 

Over  his  shoulder  talked  to  Kate, 

Who,  snug  tucked  up,  walked  slow  behind  : 


252  RICHARD  AND  KATE. 

"  When  once  a  giggling  mauther  *  you, 

And  I  a  red-faced,  chubby  boy, 
Sly  tricks  you  played  me,  not  a  few ; 

For  mischief  was  your  greatest  joy. 

"Once,  passing  by  this  very  tree, 
A  gotch  f  of  milk  I  'd  been  to  fill ; 

You  shouldered  me  ;  then  laughed  to  see 
Me  and  my  gotch  spin  down  the  hill." 

''  'T  is  true,"  she  said  ;  ';  but  here  behold, 
And  marvel  at  the  course  of  time  ! 

Though  you  and  I  are  both  grown  old, 
This  tree  is  only  in  its  prime." 

"  Well,  Goody,  don't  stand  preaching  now  ! 

Folks  don't  preach  sermons  at  a  Fair. 
We  've  reared  ten  boys  and  girls,  you  know ; 

And  I'll  be  bound  they  '11  all  be  there." 

Now  friendly  nods  and  smiles  had  they, 
From  many  a  kind  Fair-going  face  ; 

And  many  a  pinch  Kate  gave  away, 
While  Richard  kept  his  usual  pace. 

At  length,  arrived  amid  the  throng. 

Grandchildren,  bawling,  hemmed  them  round, 

And  dragged  them  by  the  skirts  along. 
Where  gingerbread  bestrewed  the  ground. 

And  soon  the  aged  couple  spied 

Their  lusty  sons,  and  daughters  dear  ; 

When  Richard  thus  exulting  cried  : 
'•  Did  n't  I  tell  you  they  'd  be  here  ?  '' 

*  A  giddy  young  girl.  t  A  pitcher. 


RICHARD  AND  KATE.  253 

The  cordial  greetings  of  the  soul 

Were  visible  in  every  face  ; 
Affection,  void  of  all  control. 

Governed  with  a  resistless  grace. 

'T  was  good  to  see  the  honest  strife. 

Who  should  contribute  most  to  please  ; 
And  hear  the  long-recounted  life, 

Of  infant  tricks  and  happy  days. 

But  now,  as  at  some  nobler  places, 

Among  the  leaders  't  was  decreed 
Time  to  begin  the  Dicky-Races, 

More  famed  for  laughter  than  for  speed. 

Richard  looked  on  with  wondrous  glee, 
And  praised  the  lad  who  chanced  to  win. 

"  Kate,  wa'n't  I  such  a  one  as  he  ? 
As  like  him.  ay,  as  pin  to  pin  ? 

"  Full  fifty  years  have  passed  away, 

Since  I  rode  this  same  ground  about ; 
Lord !  I  was  lively  as  the  day ! 
•    I  won  the  High-lows,  out  and  out. 

"I'm  surely  growing  young  again, 

I  feel  myself  so  kedge  and  plump  ! 
From  head  to  feet  I  've  not  one  pain. 

Nay,  hang  me,  if  I  could  n't  jump  !  " 

Thus  spake  the  ale  in  Richard's  pate  ; 

A  very  little  made  him  mellow  ; 
But  still  he  loved  his  faithful  Kate, 

Who  whispered  thus  :  "  My  good  old  fellow, 


254  RICHARD  AND  KATE. 

11  Remember  what  you  promised  me  ! 

And,  see,  the  sun  is  getting  low  ! 
The  children  Avant  an  hour,  ye  see, 

To  talk  a  bit  before  we  go." 

Like  youthful  lover,  most  complying, 

He  turned  and  chucked  her  by  the  chin  ; 

Then  all  across  the  green  grass  hieing ; 
Right  merry  faces,  all  akin. 

Their  farewell  quart  beneath  a  tree, 
That  drooped  its  branches  from  above, 

Awaked  the  pure  felicity, 

That  waits  upon  parental  love. 

Kate  viewed  her  blooming  daughters  round, 
And  sons  who  shook  her  withered  hand  ; 

Her  features  spoke  what  joy  she  found, 
But  utterance  had  made  a  stand. 

The  children  toppled  on  the  green, 

And  bowled  their  fairings  down  the  hill ; 

Richard  with  pride  beheld  the  scene, 
Nor  could  he,  for  his  life,  sit  still. 

A  father's  unchecked  feelings  gave 

A  tenderness  to  all  he  said : 
"  My  boys,  how  proud  am  I  to  have 

My  name  thus  round  the  country  spread  ! 

"  Through  all  my  days  I  've  labored  hard, 
And  could  of  pains  and  crosses  tell ; 

But  this  is  labor's  great  reward, 
To  meet  ye  thus,  and  see  ye  well. 


RICHARD  AND  KATE.  £55 

"  My  good  old  partner,  when  at  home, 
Sometimes  with  wishes  mingles  tears  ; 

Goody,  says  I,  let  what  wool  come, 

We  've  nothing  for  them  but  our  prayers. 

"  May  you  be  all  as  old  as  I, 

And  see  your  sons  to  manhood  grow  ; 

And  many  a  time,  before  you  die, 
Be  just  as  pleased  as  I  am  now." 

Then  (raising  still  his  mug  and  voice), 
"  An  old  man's  weakness  don't  despise  ! 

I  love  you  well,  my  girls  and  boys. 

God  bless  you  all !  "     So  said  his  eyes  ; 

For,  as  he  spoke,  a  big  round  drop 
Fell  bounding  on  his  ample  sleeve  ; 

A  witness  which  he  could  not  stop  ; 
A  witness  which  all  hearts  believe. 

Thou,  filial  piety,  wert  there  ; 

And  round  the  ring,  benignly  bright. 
Dwelt  in  the  luscious  half-shed  tear, 

And  in  the  parting  words,  "  Good  Night !  " 

With  thankful  hearts  and  strengthened  love 

The  poor  old  pair,  supremely  blest. 
Saw  the  sun  sink  behind  the  grove, 

And  gained  once  more  their  lowly  rest. 


LUDOVICO    CORNARO. 


DERIVED    FROM    THE    WRITINGS    OF    CORNARO. 

"  I  do  not  woo 

The  means  of  weakness  and  debility ; 
Therefore,  my  age  is  as  a  lusty  winter, 

Frosty,  but  kindly." 

Varied  from  SHAKESPEARE. 

;UDOVICO  CORNARO,  descended 
i  from  a  noble  family  in  Venice,  was 
born  in  1462,  thirty  years  before  Amer- 
f  ica  was  discovered.  He  removed  to 
Padua,  where  he  married,  and  late  in  life  had  an 
only  child,  a  daughter,  who  married  one  of  the 
Cornaro  family. 

As  an  illustration  of  the  physical  laws  of  our 
being,  the  outlines  of  his  history  are  worthy  of  pres- 
ervation. He  was  wealthy,  and  indulged  in  the 
habits  common  to  young  men  of  his  class.  He 
was  fond  of  sensual  indulgences,  and  especially 
drank  wine  intemperately.  The  consequence  was, 
that  from  twenty-five  years  of  age  to  forty,  he  was 
afflicted  with  dyspepsia,  gout,  and  frequent  slow 


LUDOVICO   CORNARO.  257 

fevers.  Medicines  failed  to  do  any  permanent 
good,  and  physicians  told  him  that  nothing  could 
restore  him  but  simplicity  and  regularity  of  living. 
This  advice  was  very  contrary  to  his  taste,  and  he 
continued  to  indulge  in  the  luxuries  of  the  table, 
paying  the  penalty  of  suffering  for  it  afterwards. 
At  last  his  health  was  so  nearly  ruined,  that  the 
doctors  predicted  he  could  not  live  many  months. 
At  this  crisis,  being  about  forty  years  old,  he  re- 
solved to  become  temperate  antl  abstemious  ;  but  it 
required  so  much  effort  to  change  his  dissipated 
habits,  that  he  frequently  resorted  to  prayer  for 
aid  in  keeping  the  virtuous  resolution.  His  perse- 
verance was  more  speedily  rewarded  than  might 
have  been  expected  ;  for  in  less  than  a  year  he 
was  freed  from  the  diseases  which  had  so  long  tor- 
mented him.  In  order  to  preserve  the  health  thus 
restored  to  him,  he  observed  the  peculiarities  of 
his  constitution,  and  carefully  conformed  to  them 
in  his  habits  and  modes  of  living.  He  says :  "  It 
is  a  favorite  maxim  with  epicures  that  whatever 
pleases  the  palate  must  agree  with  the  stomach 
and  nourish  the  body  ;  but  this  I  found  to  be  false  ; 
for  pork,  pastry,  salads,  rough  wines,.  <fec.,  were 
very  agreeable  to  my  palate,  yet  they  disagreed 
with  me."  There  seems  to  have  been  nothing 
peculiar  in  the  kinds  of  food  which  constituted  his 
nourishment ;  moderation  as  to  quantity,  and  sim- 
plicity in  modes  of  cooking,  were  the  principal 
things  he  deemed  of  importance.  He  speaks  of 

Q 


258  LUDOVICO   CORNARO. 

mutton,  fish,  poultry,  birds,  eggs,  light  soups  and 
broths,  and  new  wine  in  moderate  quantities,  as 
among  his  customary  articles  of  diet.  He  is  par- 
ticularly earnest  in  his  praises  of  bread.  He  says  : 
'-  Bread,  above  all  things,  is  man's  proper  food,  and 
always  relishes  well  when  seasoned  by  a  good  appe- 
tite ;  and  this  natural  sauce  is  never  wanting  to 
those  who  eat  but  little  ;  for  when  the  stomach  is 
not  burdened,  there  is  no  need  to  wait  long  for  an 
appetite.  I  speak  from  experience  ;  for  I  find  such 
sweetness  in  bread,  that  I  should  be  afraid  of  sin- 
ning against  temperance  in  eating  it,  were  it  not 
for  my  being  convinced  of  the  absolute  necessity 
for  nourishment,  and  that  we  cannot  make  use  of 
a  more  natural  kind  of  food." 

He  does  not  lay  down  specific  rules  for  others, 
but  very  wisely  advises  each  one  to  govern  himself 
according  to  the  laws  of  his  own  constitution.  He 
says  every  man  ought  carefully  to  observe  what 
kinds  of  food  and  drink  agree  or  disagree  with 
him,  and  indulge  or  refrain  accordingly  ;  but  what- 
ever he  eats  or  drinks,  it  should  be  in  quantities  so 
moderate  as  to  be  easily  digested.  He  grows  elo- 
quent in  his  warnings  against  the  fashionable  lux- 
ury, by  which  he  had  himself  suffered  so  severely. 
He  exclaims  :  "  O,  unhappy  Italy  !  Do  you  not  see 
that  intemperance  causes  more  deaths  than  plague, 
or  fire,  or  many  battles  ?  These  profuse  feasts, 
now  so  much  in  fashion,  where  the  tables  are  not 
large  enough  to  hold  the  variety  of  dishes,  I  tell 


LUDOVICO   CORNARO.  259 

you  these  cause  more  murders  than  so  many  bat- 
tles. I  beseech  you  to  put  a  stop  to  these  abuses. 
Banish  luxury,  as  you  would  the  plague.  I  am 
certain  there  is  no  vice  more  abominable  in  the  eyes 
of  the  Divine  Majesty.  It  brings  on  the  body  a 
long  and  lasting  train  of  disagreeable  sensations 
and  diseases,  and  at  length  it  destroys  the  soul  also. 
I  have  seen  men  of  fine  understanding  and  amia- 
ble disposition  carried  off  by  this  plague,  in  the 
flower  of  their  youth,  who,  if  they  had  lived  ab- 
stemiously, might  now  be  among  us,  to  benefit  and 
adorn  society." 

His  dissertations  on  health  may  be  condensed 
into  the  following  concise  general  rules,  which  are 
worthy  of  all  acceptance  :  — 

Let  every  man  study  his  own  constitution,  and 
regulate  food,  drink,  and  other  habits  in  conform- 
ity thereto. 

Never  indulge  in  anything  which  has  the  effect 
to  render  the  body  uncomfortable  or  lethargic,  or 
the  mind  restless  and  irritable. 

Even  healthy  food  should  be  cooked  with 
simplicity,  and  eaten  with  moderation.  Never 
eat  or  drink  to  repletion,  but  make  it  a  rule  to 
rise  from  the  table  with  inclination  for  a  little 
more. 

Be  regular  in  the  hours  for  meals  and  sleep. 

Be  in  the  open  air  frequently ;  riding,  walking, 
or  using  other  moderate  exercise. 

Avoid  extremes  of  heat  or  cold,  excessive  fatigue, 


260  LUDOVICO   CORNARO. 

and  places  where  the  air  is  unwholesome,  for  want 
of  ventilation. 

Restrain  anger  and  fretfulness,  and  keep  all 
malignant  or  sensual  passions  in  constant  cheek. 
Banish  melancholy,  and  do  everything  to  promote 
cheerfulness.  All  these  things  have  great  influ- 
ence over  bodily  health. 

Interest  yourself  constantly  in  employments  of 
some  kind., 

He  gives  it  as  his  opinion  that  anger,  peevish- 
ness, and  despondency  are  not  likely  to  trouble 
those  who  are  temperate  and  regular  in  their  hab- 
its, and  diligent  in  their  occupations.  He  says  : 
"  I  was  born  with  a  very  choleric  disposition,  inso- 
much that  there  was  no  living  with  me.  But  I 
reflected  that  a  person  under  the  sway  of  passion 
was  for  the  time  being  no  better  than  a  lunatic. 
I  therefore  resolved  to  make  my  temper  give  way 
to  reason.  I  have  so  far  succeeded,  that  anger 
never  entirely  overcomes  me,  though  I  do  not 
guard  myself  so  well  as  not  to  be  sometimes  hur- 
ried away  by  it.  I  have,  however,  learned  by  ex- 
perience that  hurtful  passions  of  any  kind  have  but 
little  power  over  those  who  lead  a  sober  and  use- 
ful life.  Neither  despondency  nor  any  other  affec- 
tion of  the  mind  will  harm  bodies  governed  by 
temperance  and  regularity." 

In  answer  to  the  objection  that  he  lived  too 
sparingly  to  make  the  change  which  is  sometimes 
necessary  in  case  of  sickness,  he  replies:  "•  Nature 


LU DO VI CO  CORNARO.  261 

is  so  desirous  to  preserve  men  in  good  health,  that 
she  herself  teaches  them  how  to  ward  off  illness. 
When  it  is  not  good  for  them  to  eat,  appetite 
usually  diminishes.  Whether  a  man  has  been  ab- 

i> 

stemious  or  not,  when  he  is  ill  it  is  necessary  to 
take  only  such  nourishment  as  is  suited  to  his  dis- 
order, and  even  that  in  smaller  quantities  than  he 
was  accustomed  to  in  health.  But  the  best  answer 
to  this  objection  is,  that  those  who  live  very  tem- 
perately are  not  liable  to  be  sick.  By  removing 
the  cause  of  diseases,  they  prevent  the  effects."1' 

He  also  maintains  that  external  injuries  are  very 
easily  cured,  when  the  blood  has  been  kept  in  a 
pure  state  by  abstemious  living  and  regular  habits. 
In  pi'oof  of  it,  he  tells  his  own  experience  when,  at 
seventy  years  of  age,  he  was  overturned  in  a  coach, 
and  dragged  a  considerable  distance  by  the  fright- 
ened horses.  He  was  severely  bruised,  and  a  leg 
and  arm  were  broken  ;  but  his  recovery  was  so 
rapid  and  complete,  that  physicians  were  aston- 
ished. 

Much  of  his  health  and  cheerfulness  he  attributes 
to  constant  occupation.  He  says  :  "  The  greatest 
source  of  my  happiness  is  the  power  to  render 
some  service  to  my  dear  country.  O,  what  a  glo- 
rious amusement  !  I  delight  to  show  Venice  how 
her  important  harbor  can  be  improved,  and  how 
large  tracts  of  lands,  marshes  and  barren  sands, 
can  be  rendered  productive  ;  how  her  fortifications 
can  be  strengthened  ;  how  her  air,  though  excel- 


262  LUDOVICO   CORNARO. 

lent,  can  be  made  still  purer  ;  and  how,  beautiful 
as  she  is,  the  beauty  of  her  buildings  can  still  be 
increased.  For  two  months  together,  during  the 
heat  of  summer,  I  have  been  with  those  who  were 
appointed  to  drain  the  public  marshes  ;  and  though 
I  was  seventy-five  years  old,  yet,  such  is  the  effi- 
cacy of  an  orderly  life,  that  I  found  myself  none 
the  worse  for  the  fatigue  and  inconveniences  I  suf- 
fered. It  is  also  a  source  of  satisfaction  to  me  that, 
having  lost  a  considerable  portion  of  my  income,  I 
was  enabled  to  repair  it  for  my  grandchildren,  by 
that  most  commendable  of  arts,  agriculture.  I  did 
this  by  infallible  methods,  worked  out  by  dint  of 
thought,  without  any  fatigue  of  body,  and  very 
little  of  mind.  I  owned  an  extensive  marshy  dis- 
trict, where  the  air  was  so  unwholesome  that  it 
was  more  fit  for  snakes  than  men.  I  drained  off 
the  stagnant  waters,  and  the  air  became  pure. 
People  resorted  thither  so  fast,  that  a  village  soon 
grew  up,  laid  out  in  regular  streets,  all  terminating 
in  a  large  square,  in  the  middle  of  which  stands 
the  church.  The  village  is  divided  by  a  wide  and 
rapid  branch  of  the  river  Brenta,  on  both  sides  of 
which  is  a  considerable  extent  of  well-cultivated 
fertile  fields.  I  may  say  with  truth,  that  in  this 
place  I  have  erected  an  altar  to  God,  and  brought 
thither  souls  to  adore  him.  When  I  visit  these 
people,  the  sight  of  these  things  affords  me  infinite 
satisfaction  and  enjoyment.  In  my  gardens,  too,  I 
alwavs  find  something;  to  do  that  amuses  me.  It 


LUDOVICO   CORNARO.  263 

is  also  a  great  satisfaction  to  me,  that  I  can  write 
treatises  with  my  own  hand,  for  the  service  of 
others  ;  and  that,  old  as  I  am,  I  can  study  im- 
portant, sublime,  and  difficult  subjects,  without 
fatigue." 

His  writings  consisted  of  short  treatises  on  health, 
agriculture1,  architecture,  etc.  In  an  essay,  enti- 
tled, "  A  Guide  to  Health,"  written  when  he  was 
eighty-three  years  old,  he  says  :  "  My  faculties  are 
all  perfect  ;  particularly  my  palate,  which  now 
relishes  better  the  simple  fare  I  eat  than  it  for- 
merly did  the  most  luxurious  dishes,  when  I  led  an 
irregular  life.  Change  of  beds  gives  me  no  unea- 
siness. I  sleep  everywhere  soundly  and  quietly, 
and  my  dreams  are  always  pleasant.  I  climb  hills 
from  bottom  to  top,  afoot,  with  the  greatest  ease 
and  unconcern.  I  am  cheerful  and  good-humored, 
being  free  from  perturbations  and  disagreeable 
thoughts.  Joy  and  peace  have  so  firmly  fixed 
their  residence  in  my  bosom,  that  they  never 
depart  from  it." 

In  another  essay,  called  "  A  Compendium  of  a 
Sober  Life,"  he  says  :  "  I  now  find  myself  sound 
and  hearty,  at  the  age  of  eighty-six.  My  senses 
continue  perfect ;  even  my  teeth,  my  voice,  my 
memory,  and  my  strength.  What  is  more,  the 
powers  of  my  mind  do  not  diminish,  as  I  advance 
in  years  ;  because,  as  I  grow  older,  I  lessen  the 
quantity  of  my  solid  food.  I  greatly  enjoy  the 
beautiful  expanse  of  this  visible  world,  which  u 


264  LU DO VI CO   CORNARO. 

really  beautiful  to  those  who  know  how  to  view  it 
with  a  philosophic  eye.  O,  thrice-holy  Sobriety, 
thou  hast  conferred  such  favors  on  thine  old  man, 
that  he  better  relishes  his  dry  bread,  than  he  did 
the  most  dainty  dishes  in  the  days  of  his  youth  ! 
My  spirits,  not  oppressed  by  too  much  food,  are 
always  brisk,  especially  after  eating  ;  so  that  I  am 
accustomed  then  to  sing  a  song,  and  afterward  to 
write.  I  do  not  find  myself  the  worse  for  writing 
immediately  after  meals  ;  I  am  not  apt  to  be 
drowsy,  and  my  understanding  is  always  clearer, 
the  food  I  take  being  too  small  in  quantity  to  send 
up  any  fumes  into  my  brain.  O,  how  advantageous 
it  is  to  an  old  man  to  eat  but  little !  " 

In  a  letter  to  a  friend,  written  when  he  was 
ninety-one,  the  old  man  rejoices  over  his  vigor  and 
friskiness,  as  a  boy  does  over  his  exploits  on  the 
ice.  He  says:  "The  more  I  advance  in  years, 
the  sounder  and  heartier  I  grow,  to  the  amazement 
of  the  world.  My  memory,  spirits,  and  under- 
standing, and  even  rny  voice  and  my  teeth,  remain 
unimpaired.  I  employ  eight  hours  a  day  in  writing 
treatises  with  my  own  hand  ;  and  when  I  tell  you 
that  I  write  to  be  useful  to  mankind,  you  mav 
easily  conceive  what  pleasure  I  enjoy.  I  spend 
many  hours  daily  in  walking  and  singing.  And 
O,  how  melodious  my  voice  has  grown  !  Were 
you  to  hear  me-  chant  my  prayers  to  my  lyre,  after 
the  example  of  David,  I  am  certain  it  would  give 
you  great  pleasure,  my  voice  is  so  musical." 


LUDOVICO   CORNARO.  265 

In  an  essay,  entitled,  '•  An  Earnest  Exhorta- 
tion," he  says  :  u  Arrived  at  my  ninety-fifth  year, 
I  still  find  myself  sound  and  hearty,  content  and 
cheerful.  I  eat  with  good  appetite,  and  sleep 
soundly.  My  understanding  is  clear,  and  my 
memory  tenacious.  I  write  seven  or  eight  hours 
a  day,  walk,  converse,  and  occasionally  attend 
concerts.  My  voice,  which  is  apt  to  be  the  first 
thing  to  fail,  grows  so  strong  and  sonorous,  that  I 
cannot  help  chanting  my  prayers  aloud,  morning 
and  evening,  instead  of  murmuring  them  to  myself, 
as  was  formerly  my  custom.  Apprehensions  of 
death  do  not  disturb  my  mind,  for  I  have  no  sens- 
uality to  nourish  such  thoughts.  I  have  reason  to 
think  that  my  soul,  having  so  agreeable  a  dwelling 
in  my  body,  as  not  to  meet  with  anything  in  it  but 
peace,  love,  and  hannony,  not  only  between  its 
humors,  but  between  my  reason  and  my  senses,  is 
exceedingly  contented  and  pleased  with  her  present 
situation,  and  that,  of  course,  it  will  require  many 
years  to  dislodge  her.  Whence  I  conclude  that  I 
have  still  a  series  of  years  to  live  in  health  and 
spirits,  and  enjoy  this  beautiful  world,  which  is  in- 
deed beautiful  to  those  who  know  how  to  make  it 
so  by  virtue  and  divine  regularity  of  life.  If  men 
would  betake  themselves  to  a  sober,  regular,  and 
abstemious  course  of  life,  they  would  not  grow  in- 
firm in  their  old  age,  but  would  continue  strong 
and  hearty  as  I  am,  and  might  attain  to  a  hundred 
years  and  upwards,  as  I  expect  will  be  my  case. 

12 


266  LUDOVICO   CORNARO. 

God  has  ordained  that  whoever  reaches  his  natural 
term  should  end  his  days  without  sickness  or  pain, 
by  mere  dissolution.  This  is  the  natural  way  of 
quitting  mortal  life  to  enter  upon  immortality,  as 
will  be  my  case." 

Once  only,  in  the  course  of  his  long  life,  did 
Cornaro  depart  from  the  strict  rules  he  had  laid 
down  for  himself.  When  he  was  seventy-eight 

»/  O 

years  old,  his  physician  and  family  united  in  urg- 
ing him  to  take  more  nutrition  ;  saying,  that  he 
required  it  to  keep  up  his  strength,  now  that  he 
was  growing  so  old.  He  argued  that  habit  had 
become  with  him  a  second  nature,  and  that  it  was 
unsafe  to  change  ;  moreover,  that  as  the  stomach 
grew  more  feeble,  it  was  reasonable  to  suppose 
that  it  ouo-ht  to  have  less  work  to  do,  rather  than 

~  * 

more.  But  as  they  continued  to  remonstrate,  he 
finally  consented  to  add  a  little  to  his  daily  portion 
of  food  and  wine.  He  says  :  "'  In  eight  days,  this 
had  such  an  effect  upon  me,  that  from  being 
cheerful  and  brisk,  I  began  to  be  peevish  arid 
melancholy,  so  that  nothing  could  please  me.  I 
was  so  strangely  disposed,  that  I  neither  knew 
what  to  say  to  others,  nor  what  to  do  with  my- 
self." The  result  was  a  terrible  fever,  which 
lasted  thirty-five  days,  and  reduced  him  almost  to 
a  skeleton.  He  attributes  his  recovery  to  the 
abstinence  he  had  practised  for  so  many  years. 
kw  During  all  which  time,"  says  he,  "  I  never  knew 
what  sickness  was  ;  unless  it  might  be  some  slight 


LUDOVICO   CORNARO.  267 

indisposition,  that  continued  merely  for  a  day  or 
two."  He  gives  it,  as  the  result  of  his  long  ex- 
perience, that  it  is  well  for  people,  as  they  become 
aged,  to  diminish  the  quantity  of  solid  food.  He 
also  advises  that  such  nourishment  as  they  take 
should  be  less  at  any  one  time,  and  taken  more  fre- 
quently. 

Never  had  longevity  such  a  zealous  panegyrist 
as  this  venerable  Italian.  He  says  :  "  Some  sens- 
ual, inconsiderate  persons  affirm  that  long  life  is 
not  a  blessing ;  that  the  state  of  a  man  who  has 
passed  his  seventy-fifth  year  does  not  deserve  to  be 
called  life,  but  is  rather  a  lingering  death.  This  is 
a  great  mistake.  And  I,  who  have  experienced 
the  salutarv  effects  of  temperate,  regular  habits, 
am  bound  to  prove  that  a  man  may  enjoy  a  ter- 
restrial paradise  after  he  is  eighty  years  old.  My 
own  existence,  so  far  from  being  a  lingering  death, 
is  a  perpetual  round  of  pleasures  ;  and  it  is  my 
sincere  wish  that  all  men  would  endeavor  to  attain 
my  age,  in  order  that  they  also  may  enjoy  that 
period  of  life  which  of  all  others  is  the  most  de- 
sirable. For  that  reason  I  will  give  an  account 

C 

of  my  recreations,  and  of  the  relish  I  find  in  life 
at  its  present  advanced  stage.  I  can  climb  my 
horse  without  any  assistance,  or  advantage  of 
situation,  and  now  and  then  I  make  one  of  a 
hunting  party  suitable  to  my  age  and  taste.  I 
have  frequent  opportunities  to  converse  with  in- 
telligent, worthy  gentlemen,  well  acquainted  with 


268  LUDOVICO   CORNARO. 

literature.  When  I  have  not  such  conversation  to 
enjoy,  I  betake  myself  to  reading  some  good  book. 
When  I  have  read  as  much  as  I  like,  I  write, 
endeavoring  in  this,  as  in  everything  else,  to  be  of 
service  to  others.  This  I  do  in  my  own  com- 
modious house,  in  the  most  beautiful  quarter  of 
this  noble  and  learned  city  of  Padua,  and  around 
it  are  gardens  supplied  with  running  waters,  where 
I  always  find  something  to  do  that  amuses  me. 
Every  spring  and  autumn  I  go  to  a  handsome 
hunting-lodge,  belonging  to  me,  in  the  Euganean 
mountains,  which  is  also  adorned  with  fountains 
and  gardens.  Then  I  visit  my  village  in  the  plain, 
the  soil  of  which  I  redeemed  from  the  marshes. 
I  visit  neighboring  cities,  to  meet  old  friends,  and 
to  converse  with  architects,  painters,  sculptors, 
musicians,  and  husbandmen,  from  all  of  whom  I 
learn  something  that  gives  me  satisfaction.  I 
visit  their  new  works,  and  I  revisit  their  old  ones. 
I  see  churches,  palaces,  gardens,  fortifications, 
and  antiquities,  leaving  nothing  unobserved  from 
which  either  entertainment  or  instruction  can  be 
derived.  But  what  delights  me  most  is  the  sce- 
nery I  pass  through,  in  my  journeys  backwards 
and  forwards.  When  I  was  young,  and  debauched 
by  an  irregular  life,  I  did  not  observe  the  beauties 
of  nature  ;  so  that  I  never  knew,  till  I  grew  old, 
that  the  world  was  beautiful.  That  no  comfort 
may  be  wanting  to  the  fulness  of  my  years,  I 
enjoy  a  kind  of  immortality  in  a  succession  of 


LUDOVICO   CORNARO.  269 

descendants.  When  I  return  home  from  my  jour- 
neys, I  am  greeted  by  eleven  grandchildren,  the 
oldest  eighteen,  the  youngest  two  years  old  ;  all 
the  offspring  of  one  father  and  mother.  They 
all  have  good  parts  and  morals,  are  blessed  with 
the  best  of  health,  and  fond  of  learning.  I  play 
with  the  youngest,  and  make  companions  of  the 
older  ones.  Nature  has  bestowed  on  them  fine 
voices.  I  delight  in  hearing  them  sing  and  play 
on  various  instruments,  and  I  myself  sing  with 
them,  for  I  have  a  clearer  and  louder  pipe  now 
than  at  any  other  period  of  life.  Such  gayety  of 
spirits  has  been  imparted  by  my  temperate  life, 
that  at  my  present  age  of  eighty-three  [  have  been 
able  to  write  a  very  entertaining  comedy,  abound- 
ing with  innocent  mirth  and  pleasant  jests.  I  de- 
clare I  would  not  exchange  my  gray  hairs,  or 
my  mode  of  living,  with  any  young  men,  even  of 
the  best  constitutions,  who  seek  pleasure  through 
the  indulgence  of  their  appetites.  I  take  an  in- 
terest in  seeing  the  draining  of  marshes  and  the 
improvement  of  the  harbor  going  on,  and  it  is  a 
great  comfort  to  me  that  my  treatises  on  a  tem- 
perate life  have  proved  useful  to  others,  as  many 
have  assured  me,  both  by  word  of  mouth,  and  by 
letter.  I  may  further  add,  that  I  enjoy  two  lives 
at  once.  I  enjoy  this  terrestrial  life,  in  consequence 
of  sobriety  and  temperance  ;  and,  by  the  grace  of 
God,  I  enjoy  the  celestial  life,  which  he  makes 
me  anticipate  by  thought,  —  a  thought  so  lively, 


270  LUDOVICO   COENARO. 

that  I  affirm  the  enjoyment  to  be  of  the  utmost 
certainty.  To  die  in  the  manner  that  I  expect  to 
die  is  not  really  death,  but  merely  a  passage  of  the 
soul  from  this  earthly  life  to  an  infinitely  perfect 
existence.  The  prospect  of  terminating  the  high 
gratifications  I  have  enjoyed  here  gives  me  no 
uneasiness  ;  it  rather  affords  me  pleasure,  as  it  will 
be  only  to  make  room  for  another  glorious  and 
immortal  life.  How  beautiful  the  life  I  lead  ! 
How  happy  my  exit !  " 

His  prophecy  proved  true.     He  lived  to  be  one 
hundred  and  four  years  old,  and  passed  away  with- 
out  pain,  sitting   in    his    elbow-chair.     His  wife, 
who  was  nearly   as  old  as  himself,   survived 
him  but   a   short  time,  and  died  easily. 
They  were  buried  in  St.  Anthony's 
Church,  at  Padua,   in  a  very 
unostentatious  manner,  ac- 
cording to   their  tes- 
tamentary    di- 
rections. 


WHEN  Dr.  Priestley  was  young,  he  preached 
that  old  age  was  the  happiest  period  of  life  ;  and 
when  he  was  himself  eighty,  he  wrote,  "  I  have 
found  it  so." 


ROBIN    AND    JEANNIE 

BY   DORA    GREENWELL. 


"   I  \0  you  think  of  the  days  that  are  gone,  Jeannie, 

i  J     As  you  sit  by  the  fire  at  night  ? 
Do  you  wish  that  the  morn  would  bring  back  the  time, 

When  your  heart  and  your  step  were  so  light  ?  " 

'•  I  think  of  the  days  that  are  gone,  Robin, 

And  of  all  that  I  joyed  in  then  ; 
But  the  brightest  that  ever  arose  on  me, 

I  have  never  wished  back  again." 

"  Do  you  think  of  the  hopes  that  are  gone,  Jeannie, 

As  you  sit  by  the  fire  at  night  ? 
Do  you  gather  them  up,  as  they  faded  fast, 

Like  buds  with  an  early  blight  ?  " 

''  I  think  of  the  hopes  that  are  gone,  Robin, 

And  I  mourn  not  their  stay  was  fleet, 
For  they  fell  as  the  leaves  of  the  roses  fall, 

And  were  even  in  falling  sweet." 


272  ROBIN  AND  JE ANNIE. 

"  Do  you  think  of  the  friends  that  are  gone,  Jeannie. 

As  you  sit  by  the  fire  at  night  ? 
Do  you  wish  they  were  round  you  again  once  more, 

By  the  hearth  that  they  made  so  bright  ?  " 

''  I  think  of  the  friends  that  are  gone,  Robin  ; 

They  are  dear  to  my  heart  as  then  ; 
But  the  best  and  the  dearest  among  them  all 

I  have  never  wished  back  again." 


"  WE  have  lived  and  loved  together, 
Through  many  changing  years  ; 
We  have  shared  each  other's  gladness, 
We  have  wept  each  other's  tears. 

"  I  have  never  known  a  sorrow 

That  was  long  unsoothed  by  thee ; 
For  thy  smile  can  make  a  summer, 
Where  darkness  else  would  be. 

"  And  let  us  hope  the  future 

As  the  past  has  been,  will  be ; 

I  will  share  with  thee  thy  sorrows, 

And  thou  thy  smiles  with  me." 

ANONYMOUS. 


A    GOOD    OLD    AGE. 

FROM  MOUNTFORD'S  EUTHANASY. 

GOOD  old  age  is  a  beautiful  sight,  and 
there  is  nothing  earthly  that  is  as  noble, 
—  in  my  eyes,  at  least.  And  so  I  have 
often  thought.  A  ship  is  a  fine  object, 
when  it  comes  up  into  a  port,  with  all  its  sails  set, 
and  quite  safely,  from  a  long  vovage.  Many  a 
thousand  miles  it  has  come,  with  the  sun  for  guid- 
ance, and  the  sea  for  its  path,  and  the  winds  for  its 
speed.  What  might  have  been  its  grave,  a  thou- 
sand fathoms  deep,  has  yielded  it  a  ready  way  ; 
and  winds  that  might  have  been  its  wreck  have 
been  its  service.  It  has  come  from  another  me- 
ridian than  ours  ;  it  has  come  through  day  and 
night ;  it  has  come  by  reefs  and  banks  that  have 
been  avoided,  and  past  rocks  that  have  been 
watched  for.  Not  a  plank  has  started,  nor  one 
timber  in  it  proved  rotten.  And  now  it  comes 
like  an  answer  to  the  prayers  of  many  hearts  ;  a 
delight  to  the  owner,  a  joy  to  many  a  sailor's 
family,  and  a  pleasure  to  all  ashore,  that  see  it. 

12*  R 


274  A    GOOD   OLD  AGE. 

It  has  been  steered  over  the  ocean,  and  been  pilot- 
ed through  'dangers,  and  now  it  is  safe. 

But  still  more  interesting  than  this  is  a  good  life, 
as  it  approaches  its  threescore  years  and  ten.  It 
began  in  the  century  before  the  present ;  it  has 
lasted  on  through  storms  and  sunshine  ;  and  itfhas 
been  guarded  against  many  a  rock,  on  which  ship- 
wreck of  a  good  conscience  might  have  been  made. 
On  the  course  it  has  taken,  there  has  been  the 
influence  of  Providence  ;  and  it  has  been  guided 
by  Christ,  that  day-star  from  on  high.  Yes,  old 
age  is  even  a  nobler  sight  than  a  ship  completing  a 
long,  long  voyage. 

On  a  summer's  evening,  the  setting  sun  is  orand 

O '  ~  O 

to  look  at.  In  his  morning  beams,  the  birds  awoke 
and  sang,  men  rose  for  their  work,  and  the  world 
grew  light.  In  his  mid-day  heat,  wheat-fields  grew 
yellower,  and  fruits  were  ripened,  and  a  thousand 
natural  purposes  were  answered,  which  we  mortals 
do  not  know  of.  And  at  his  setting,  all  things 

O'  O 

seem  to  grow  harmonious  and  solemn  in  his  light. 
But  what  is  all  this  to  the  sight  of  a  good  life, 
in  those  years  that  go  down  into  the  grave  ?  In 
the  early  days  of  it,  old  events  had  their  happen- 
ing ;  with  the  light  of  it  many  a  house  has  been 
brightened  ;  and  under  the  good  influence  of  it, 
souls  have  grown  better,  some  of  whom  are  now 
on  high.  And  then  the  closing  period  of  such  a 
life,  —  how  almost  awful  is  the  beauty  of  it !  From 
his  setting,  the  sun  will  rise  again  to-morrow;  and 
he  will  shine  on  men  and  their  work,  and  on  chil- 


A    GOOD   OLD  AGE,  275 

dren's  children  and  their  labors.     But  when  once 

finished,  even  a  good  life  has  no  renewal  in  this 

world.     It  will  begin  again  ;  but  it  will  be  in 

a   new  earth,  and   under  new  heavens. 

Yes,    nobler     than    a     ship    safely 

ending    a    long    voyage,    and 

sublimer  than  the  settincr 

O 

sun,  is  the  old  age  of 

a    just,   a    kind, 

and  useful 

life. 

r 

A  GOOD  old  man  is  the  best  antiquity  ;  one 
whom  time  hath  been  thus  long  a  working,  and, 
like  winter  fruit,  ripened  when  others  are  shaken 
down.  He  looks  over  his  former  life  as  a  danger 
well  past,  and  would  not  hazard  himself  to  begin 
again.  The  next  door  of  death  saps  him  not,  but 
he  expects  it  calmly,  as  his  turn  in  nature.  All 
men  look  on  him  as  a  common  father,  and  on  old 
age,  for  his  sake,  as  a  reverent  thing.  He  prac- 
tises his  experience  on  youth,  without  harshness 
or  reproof,  and  in  his  council  is  good  company. 
You  must  pardon  him  if  he  likes  his  own  times 
better  than  these,  because  those  thino-s  are  follies 

'  O 

to  him  now,  that  were  wisdom  then  ;  yet  he  makes 
us  of  that  opinion,  too,  when  we  see  him,  and  con- 
jecture those  times  by  so  good  a  relic.  — BISHOP 
EARLE. 


MY    PSALM. 

By  JOHN   G.   WHITTIER. 

I  MOURN  no  more  my  vanished  years 
Beneath  a  tender  rain,  — 
An  April  rain  of  smiles  and  tears,  — 
My  heart  is  young  again. 

The  west  winds  blow,  and,  singing  low, 
I  hear  the  glad  streams  run  ; 

The  windows  of  my  soul  I  throw 
Wide  open  to  the  sun. 

No  longer  forward  nor  behind 

I  look  in  hope  or  fear  ; 
But,  grateful,  take  the  good  I  find, 

The  best  of  now  and  here. 

I  plough  no  more  a  desert  land, 

To  harvest  weed  and  tare  ; 
The  manna  dropping  from  God's  hand 

Rebukes  my  painful  care. 

I  break  my  pilgrim  staff,  I  lay 

Aside  the  toiling  oar  ; 
The  angel  sought  so  far  away, 

I  welcome  at  my  door. 


MY  PSALM.  277 

The  airs  of  Spring  may  never  play 

Among  the  ripening  corn, 
Nor  freshness  of  the  flowers  of  May 

Blow  through  the  Autumn  morn  ;  — • 

Yet  shall  the  blue-eyed  Gentian  look 

Through  fringed  lids  to  Heaven, 
And  the  pale  Aster  in  the  brook 

Shall  see  its  image  given  ;  — 

The  woods  shall  wear  their  robes  of  praise, 

The  south-wind  softly  sigh  ; 
And  sweet,  calm  days,  in  golden  haze, 

Melt  down  the  amber  sky. 

Not  less  shall  manly  deed  and  word 

Rebuke  an  age  of  wrong ; 
The  graven  flowers  that  wreathe  the  sword 

Make  not  the  blade  less  strong. 

But  smiting  hands  shall  learn  to  heal, 

To  build,  as  to  destroy ; 
Nor  less  my  heart  for  others  feel, 

That  I  the  more  enjoy. 

All  as  God  wills,  who  wisely  heeds 

To  give  or  to  withhold, 
And  knoweth  more  of  all  my  needs 

Than  all  my  prayers  have  told. 

Enough  that  blessings  undeserved 

Have  marked  my  erring  track,  — 
That,  wheresoe'er  my  feet  have  swerved, 

His  chastening  turned  me  back,  — 


278  MY  PSALM. 

That  more  and  more  a  Providence 

Of  love  is  understood, 
Making  the  springs  of  time  and  sense 

Sweet  with  eternal  good,  — 

That  death  seems  but  a  covered  way 

Which  opens  into  light, 
Wherein  no  blinded  child  can  stray 

Beyond  the  Father's  sight,  — 

That  care  and  trial  seem  at  last, 
Through  Memory's  sunset  air, 

Like  mountain-ranges,  overpast, 
In  purple  distance  fair,  — 

That  all  the  jarring  notes  of  life 
Seem  blending  in  a  psalm, 

And  all  the  angles  of  its  strife 
Slow  rounding  into  calm. 

And  so  the  shadows  fall  apart, 
And  so  the  west  winds  play  ; 

And  all  the  windows  of  my  heart 
I  open  to  the  day. 


OVER  the  winter  glaciers, 

I  see  the  summer  glow, 
And,  through  the  wild  piled  snow-drift, 

The  warm  rosebuds  below. 

E.  W.  EMERSON. 


JOHN   HENRY   VON   DANNECKER. 

DERIVED    FROM    MRS.  JAMESON'S    SKETCHES,    LONGFELLOW'S 
HYPERION,  AND  FROM  VARIOUS  EUROPEAN   LETTERS. 

HIS  celebrated  German  sculptor  was 
born  in  1758,  at  Stuttgard.  His  fa- 
ther, who  was  one  of  the  grooms  of  the 

.  Duke  of  Wiirtemberg,  was  a  stupid, 
harsh  man.  He  thought  it  sufficient  for  his  son  to 
know  how  to  work  in  the  stable  ;  and  how  the 
gifted  boy  contrived  to  pick  up  the  rudiments  of 
reading  and  writing,  he  could  not  remember  in 
after  life.  He  had  an  extraordinary  passion  for 
drawing,  and  being  too  poor  to  buy  paper  and 
pencils,  he  used  to  scrawl  figures  with  charcoal  on 
the  slabs  of  a  neighboring  stone-cutter.  When  his 
father  discovered  this,  he  beat  him  for  his  idleness  ; 
but  his  mother  interfered  to  protect  him.  After 
he  arrived  at  manhood,  he  was  accustomed  to  speak 
of  her  with  the  utmost  tenderness  and  reverence  ; 
saying  that  her  promptings  were  the  first  softening 
and  elevating  influences  he  ever  knew.  His  bright 
countenance  and  alert  ways  sometimes  attracted 


280       JOHN  HENRY  VON  DANNECKER. 

the  notice  of  the  Duke,  who  saw  him  running 
about  the  precincts  of  the  palace,  ragged  and  bare- 
foot ;  but  he  was  far  enough  from  foreseeing  the 
wonderful  genius  that  would  be  developed  in  this 
child  of  one  of  his  meanest  servants. 

When  John  Henry  was  about  thirteen  years  old, 
the  Duke  established  a  military  school,  into  which 
poor  boys,  who  manifested  sufficient  intelligence, 
might  be  admitted.  As  soon  as  he  heard  of  this 
opportunity,  he  eagerly  announced  the  intention 
of  presenting  himself  as  a  candidate.  His  surly 
father  became  very  angry  at  this,  and  told  him  lie 
should  stay  at  home  and  work.  When  the  lad 
persisted  in  saying  he  wanted  to  get  a  chance  to 
learn  something,  he  beat  him  and  locked  him  lip. 
The  persevering  boy  jumped  out  of  the  window, 
collected  several  of  his  comrades  together,  and  pro- 
posed to  them  to  go  to  the  Duke  and  ask  to  be 
admitted  into  his  school.  The  whole  court  hap- 
pened to  be  assembled  at  the  palace  when  the  little 
troop  marched  up.  Being  asked  by  one  of  the 
attendants  what  they  wanted,  Dannecker  replied, 
"  Tell  his  Highness  the  Duke  that  we  want  to  be 
admitted  to  the  Charles  School."  The  Duke,  who 
was  amused  by  this  specimen  of  juvenile  earnest- 
ness, went  out  to  inspect  the  bovs.  He  led  aside 
one  after  another,  till  only  Dannecker  and  two 
others  remained.  He  used  to  say  afterward  that 
he  supposed  himself  rejected,  and  suffered  such  an 
agony  of  shame,  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  run- 


JOHN  HENRY  VON  DANNECKER.       281 

ning  away  and  hiding  himself,  when  he  discovered 
that  those  who  had  been  led  aside  were  the  rejected 
ones.  The  Duke  ordered  the  successful  candidates 
to  go  next  morning  to  the  school,  and  dismissed 
them.  The  father  did  not  dare  to  resist  such  hi  Mi 

O 

authority,  but  he  was  so  enraged  with  his  son,  that 
he  turned  him  out  of  the  house  and  forbade  him 
ever  to  enter  it  again.  But  his  good  mother 
packed  up  a  little  bundle  of  necessaries  for  him, 
accompanied  him  some  distance  on  the  road,  and 
parted  with  him  with  tears  and  blessings. 

He  did  not  find  himself  well  situated  in  this 
school.  The  teachers  were  accustomed  to  employ 
the  poorer  boys  as  servants,  and  he  was  kept  so 
constantly  at  work,  that  what  little  he  learned  was 
mostly  accomplished  by  stealth.  But  he  met  with 
one  piece  of  great  good  fortune.  Schiller,  who 
afterward  became  world-renowned  as  a  writer,  was  ( 
at  this  school.  The  two  boys  recognized  kindred 
genius  in  each  other,  and  formed  a  friendship 
which  lasted  through  life.  When  he  was  fifteen 

O 

years  old,  his  remarkable  talent  for  drawing  caused 
him  to  be  removed  to  the  School  of  Art  in  Stutt- 
gard,  where  he  received  instruction  from  Grubel, 
the  sculptor.  The  next  year,  he  obtained  the 
highest  prize  for  a  statue  of  Milo,  modelled  in  clay. 
The  Duke,  who  had  forgotten  the  bright,  ragged 
boy  that  formerly  attracted  his  attention,  was  aston- 
ished to  hear  he  had  carried  off  the  highest  honors 
of  the  School  of  Art.  He  employed  him  to  carve 


282      JOHN  HENRY  VON  DANNECKER. 

cornices  and  ornaments  for  two  new  palaces  he  was 
building.  Ten  years  were  thus  spent,  during 
which  he  acquired  a  great  deal  of  mere  mechanical 
skill  and  dexterity.  But  he  longed  to  improve 
himself  by  the  sight  of  noble  models  ;  and  at  last 
he  obtained  leave  to  travel.  The  allowance  granted 
him  by  his  ducal  patron  was  only  one  hundred  and 
twenty  dollars  a  year.  With  this  he  set  off  for 
Paris,  where  he  studied  in  the  galleries  of  the 
Louvre,  often  going  the  whole  day  without  food, 
and  in  a  dress  too  shabby  to  be  considered  respect- 
able. Those  who  saw  him  thus  perseveringly  em- 
ployed, passed  by  without  recognizing  the  divine 
soul  that  dwelt  within  the  forlorn  exterior.  He 
afterward  went  to  Rome,  where  for  some  months, 
he  wandered  about  among  monuments  and  ruins, 
friendless  and  homesick.  But  luckily  his  illustrious 
countrymen,  Herder  and  Goethe  were  there.  He 
was  introduced  to  them,  and  their  conversation 
imbued  him  with  higher  ideas  of  Art  than  he 
had  ever  before  received.  The  celebrated  Italian 
sculptor,  Canova,  also  became  acquainted  with 
him,  and  often  visited  him  in  his  studio.  There 
was  but  a  year's  difference  in  their  ages,  and  their 
friendship  became  intimate.  He  remained  five 
years  in  Rome,  and  distinguished  himself  by  the 
production  of  several  fine  statues.  He  then  re- 
turned to  his  native  country,  where  he  married. 
At  fifty  years  of  age  he  was  considered  the  greatest 
sculptor  in  Germany.  The  Grand  Duke  ennobled 


JOHN  HENRY  VON  DANNECKER.       283 

inm,  as  the  phrase  is ;  though  it  seems  absurd 
enough  that  wearing  a  ribbon  in  his  button-hole, 
and  being  allowed  to  put  von  before  the  name  his 
genius  had  rendered  illustrious,  could  add  any 
nobility  to  a  man  like  Dannecker. 

His  two  most  celebrated  works  are  Ariadne 
riding  on  a  panther,  and  his  statue  of  Christ. 
The  circumstances  under  which  the  latter  was 
produced  are  very  peculiar.  Dannecker  was  a 
devout  Lutheran,  and  he  often  meditated  upon 
a  statue  of  the  Mediator  between  God  and  man 
as  the  highest  problem  of  Art.  He  sought  to 

ox  O 

embody  it,  but  felt  that  something  was  wanting. 
A  child,  who  was  accustomed  to  run  about  his 
studio,  came  in  while  he  was  at  his  work.  "  Who 
do  you  think  that  is  ?  "  said  the  artist,  pointing  to 
his  model.  The  child  looked,  and  replied :  "  I 
don't  know  ;  I  guess  it  is  some  great  king."  Ah, 
thought  Dannecker,  I  have  made  the  expression 
of  power  to  predominate  over  love.  The  search 
after  a  perfect  ideal  of  the  Divine  and  human 
combined  took  complete  possession  of  his  mind. 
Filled  with  such  thoughts,  he  fell  asleep  and 
dreamed  of  a  face  and  form  transcending  anything 
he  had  conceived.  He  hastened  to  model  it  in 
clay,  while  the  vision  was  still  fresh  in  his  mind. 
When  it  was  shown  to  the  child,  he  at  once  ex- 
claimed, "  That  is  the  Redeemer.  Mother  reads 
to  me  about  him,  where  he  says,  '  Suffer  little 
children  to  come  unto  me.' "  This  confirmed 


284       JOHN  HENRY  VON  DANNECKER. 

Dannecker  in  the  belief  that  he  had  been  directly 
inspired  from  above.  Others  regarded  it  as  a 
dream  produced  by  the  intense  activity  of  his 
thoughts  concentrated  upon  one  subject ;  but  he 
always  viewed  it  as  an  immediate  revelation.  He 
was  fifty-eight  years  old  when  this  sublime  vision 
was  presented  to  him  in  his  sleep,  and  for  eight 
years  he  devoted  to  it  all  the  energies  of  mind  and 
heart.  He  studied  the  Scriptures  intently,  and 
prayed  for  Divine  assistance.  His  enthusiasm  was 
a  compound  of  Religion  and  Art.  Under  this 
combined  influence,  he  said  he  felt  as  if  he  were 
pursued  by  some  irresistible  power,  which  visited 
him  in  his  sleep,  and  often  compelled  him  to  rise 
in  the  night  and  embody  the  ideas  which  had  been 
presented  to  him.  When  he  was  sixty-six  years 
old,  the  glorious  statue  was  completed.  It  is 
clothed  in  a  simple  robe  reaching  to  the  feet.  The 
hair  is  parted  on  the  forehead,  and  falls  in  ringlets 
over  the  shoulders.  The  head  is  purely  moral 
and  intellectual  in  its  outline.  One  hand  is  pressed 
upon  the  bosom,  the  other  extended,  and  the  lips 
are  partially  unclosed,  as  if  in  the  act  of  speaking. 
The  expression  is  said  to  be  a  remarkable  com- 
bination of  majesty  and  tenderness,  exciting  invol- 
untary reverence  in  all  who  look  upon  it. 

Mrs.  Jameson  visited  Dannecker  in  1830.  The 
statue  was  still  standing  in  his  studio.  She  says : 
"  He  told  me  that  the  figure  had  visited  him  in  a 
dream  three  several  times,  and  that  he  firmly 


JOHN  HENRY  VON  DANNECKER.       285 

believed  he  had  been  predestined  to  the  work,  and 
divinely  inspired.  I  shall  not  easily  forget  the 
countenance  of  the  good  and  gifted  old  man,  as  he 
leaned  on  the  pedestal,  with  his  cap  in  his  hand, 
and  his  long  gray  hair  waving  round  his  face, 
looking  up  at  his  work  with  a  mixture  of  rever- 
ence and  exultation." 

This  remarkable  statue  was  purchased  by  the 
Emperor  Alexander,  and  is  now  in  Russia.  A 
year  after  its  completion,  he  made  a  colossal  statue 
of  the  Evangelist  John,  for  the  royal  chapel  at 
Rothenberg.  He  had  for  many  years  been  Pro- 
fessor of  the  Fine  Arts  at  the  Academy  in  Stutt- 
gard,  and  the  instructions  he  was  obliged  to  give 
there,  combined  with  the  labors  of  his  studio,  kept 
him  very  constantly  occupied.  Mrs.  Jameson 
again  visited  him  in  1833,  when  he  was  seventy- 
five  years  old.  She  says  :  "  A  change  had  come 
over  him.  His  trembling  hand  could  no  longer 
grasp  the  mallet  or  guide  the  chisel.  His  fine 
benevolent  countenance  wore  a  childish  smile,  and 
was  only  now  and  then  crossed  by  a  gleam  of 
awakened  memory  or  thought.  Yet  he  seemed 
perfectly  happy.  He  walked  backward  and  for- 
ward from  his  statue  of  Christ  to  his  bust  of 
Schiller,  with  an  unwearied  self-complacency,  in 
which  there  was  something  mournful,  yet  delight- 
ful. While  I  was  looking  at  the  magnificent  head 
of  Schiller,  he  took  my  hand,  and  trembling  with 
emotion,  said,  '  We  were  friends  from  boyhood. 


286       JOHN  HENRY  VON  DANNECKER. 

I  worked  upon  it  with  love  and  grief;  and  one 
can  do  no  more.'  I  took  leave  of  Dannecker  with 
emotion.  I  shall  never  see  him  again.  But  he  is 
one  of  those  who  cannot  die.  Canova,  after  he 
was  a  melancholy  invalid,  visited  his  studio,  and 
was  so  much  struck  by  his  childlike  simplicity, 
his  pure,  unworldly  nature,  his  genuine  goodness, 
and  lively,  happy  temperament,  that  he  gave  him 
the  surname  of  II  Beato,  The  Blessed.  And 
surely  if  that  epithet  can  with  propriety  be  be- 
stowed upon  any  mortal,  it  is  on  him  whose  long 
life  has  been  one  of  labor  and  of  love  ;  who  has 
left  behind  him  lasting  memorials  of  his  genius  ; 
who  has  never  profaned  to  any  unworthy  purpose 
the  talents  which  God  has  given  him,  but,  in  the 
midst  of  all  the  beautiful  and  exciting  influences 
of  Poetry  and  Art,  has  kept,  from  youth  to  age,  a 
soul  serene,  a  conscience  and  a  life  pure  in  the 
sight  of  God  and  man." 

Longfellow,  in  his  prose-poem  called  "  Hyperi- 
on," thus  introduces  the  renowned  German  artist, 
on  a  calm  Sabbath  forenoon  :  —  "  Flemmino;  stole 

O 

out  into  the  deserted  street,  and  went  to  visit  the 
veteran  sculptor  Dannecker.  He  found  him  in 
his  parlor,  sitting  alone,  with  his  psalm-book  and 
the  reminiscences  of  his  lono;  life.  As  Fk>mmim<- 

~  c? 

entered,  he  arose  from  the  sofa  and  tottered  to- 
ward him  ;  a  venerable  old  man,  of  low  stature, 
and  dressed  in  a  loose  white  jacket,  with  a  face 
like  Franklin's,  his  white  hair  flowing  over  his 
shoulders,  and  a  pale  blue  eye. 


JOHN  HENRY  VON  DANNECKER.       287 

"  '  So  you  are  from  America,'  said  he.  '  I  Lave 
never  been  in  America.  I  shall  never  go  there. 
I  am  now  too  old.  I  have  been  in  Paris  and  in 
Rome.  But  that  was  long  ago.  I  am  now  sev- 
enty-eight years  old.' 

"  He  took  Flemming  by  the  hand,  and  made  him 
sit  by  his  side  on  the  sofa.  And  Flemming  felt  a 
mysterious  awe  creep  over  him,  on  touching  the 
hand  of  the  good  old  man,  who  sat  so  serenely 
amid  the  gathering  shade  of  years,  and  listened  to 
life's  curfew-bell,  telling,  with  eight  and  seventy 
solemn  strokes,  that  the  hour  had  come,  when  the 
fires  of  all  earthly  passion  must  be  quenched  with- 
in, and  man  must  prepare  to  lie  down  and  rest  till 
morning. 

"  '  You  see,'  he  continued,  '  my  hands  are  cold. 
They  were  warmer  once.  I  am  now  an  old  man.' 

"  '  Yet  these  are  the  hands  that  sculptured  the 
beautiful  Ariadne  and  the  Panther,'  replied  Flem- 
ming. '  The  soul  never  grows  old.' 

"  '  Nor  does  Nature,'  said  the  old  man,  pleased 
with  this  allusion  to  his  great  work,  and  pointing  to 
the  green  trees  before  his  window.  '  This  pleas- 
ure I  have  left  to  me.  My  sio;ht  is  still  sood.  I 

*/  O  <-_? 

can  even  distinguish  objects  on  the  side  of  yonder 
mountain.  My  hearing  is  also  unimpaired.  For 
all  which  I  thank  God.' 

"  Directing  Flemming's  attention  to  a  fine  engrav- 
ing which  hung  on  the  opposite  wall  of  the  room, 
he  continued :  '  That  is  an  engraving  of  Canova's 


288       JOHN  HENRY  VON  DANNECKER. 

Religion.  I  love  to  sit  here  and  look  at  it,  for 
hours  together.  It  is  beautiful.  He  made  the 
statue  for  his  native  town,  where  they  had  no 
church,  until  he  built  them  one.  He  placed  the 
statue  in  it.  He  sent  me  this  engraving  as  a  pres- 
ent. Ah,  he  was  a  dear,  good  man  !  The  name 
of  his  native  town  I  have  forgotten.  My  memory 
fails  me.  I  cannot  remember  names.' 

"  Fearful  that  he  had  disturbed  the  old  man  in 
his  morning  devotions,  Flemming  did  not  remain 
long ;  but  he  took  his  leave  with  regret.  There 
was  something  impressive  in  the  scene  he  had 
witnessed  ;  —  this  beautiful  old  age  of  the  artist ; 
sitting  by  the  open  window,  in  the  bright  summer 
morning ;  the  labor  of  life  accomplished  ;  the  hori- 
zon reached,  where  heaven  and  earth  meet ;  think- 
ing it  was  angel's  music  when  he  heard  the  church 
bells  ring  ;  himself  too  old  to  go.  As  he  walked 
back  to  his  chamber,  he  thought  within  himself 
whether  he  likewise  might  not  accomplish  some- 
thing which  should  live  after  him  ;  —  might  not 
bring  something  permanent  out  of  this  fast-fleeting 
life  of  man,  and  then  sit  down,  like  the  artist,  in 
serene  old  age,  and  fold  his  hands  in  silence.  He 
wondered  how  a  man  felt  when  he  grew  so  old, 
that  he  could  no  longer  go  to  church,  but  must  sit 
at  home,  and  read  the  Bible  in  large  print.  His 
heart  was  full  of  indefinite  longings,  mingled  with 
regrets  ;  longings  to  accomplish  something  worthy 
of  life  ;  regret  that  as  yet  he  had  accomplished 


JOHN  HENRY   VON  DANNECKER.       289 
nothing,  but  had  felt  and  dreamed  only.      Thus 

O '  •> 

the  warm  days  in  spring  bring  forth  passion- 
flowers and  forget-me-nots.  It  is  only  after  mid- 
summer, when  the  days  grow  shorter  and  hotter, 
that  fruit  begins  to  appear.  Then  the  heat  of 
the  day  brings  forward  the  harvest ;  and  after  the 
harvest,  the  leaves  fall,  and  there  is  a  gray  frost." 
Dannecker  lived  eighty-five  years.  His  last 

O         *J  «/ 

drawing,  done  when  he  was  extremely  old,  rep- 
resented   an    angel    guiding   an    aged   man 
from  the  grave,  and  pointing  to  him 
the    opening    heaven.      It   was 
a  beautiful   occupation   to 
console  the  last  days  of 
this  truly  Chris- 
tian artist's 
life. 


WHEN  a  good  man  dies,  —  one  that  hath  lived 
innocently,  —  then  the  joys  break  forth  through 
the  clouds  of  sickness,  and  the  conscience  stands 
upright,  and  confesses  the  glories  of  God,  and 
owns  so  much  integrity  that  it  can  hope  for  par- 
don and  obtain  it  too.  Then  the  sorrows  of  sick- 
ness do  but  untie  the  soul  from  its  chain,  and  let  it 
go  forth,  first  into  liberty  and  then  into  glory. 

JEREMY  TAYLOH. 
13  a 


THE    KITTEN    AND    THE    FALLING 
LEAVES. 

BY  WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 

THAT  way  look,  my  infant,  lo  ! 
What  a  pretty  baby-show ! 
See  the  kitten  on  the  wall, 
Sporting  with  the  leaves  that  fall ! 
Withered  leaves  —  one,  two,  and  three  — 
From  the  lofty  Elder-tree  ! 
—  See  the  kitten  !  how  she  starts, 
Crouches,  stretches,  paws,  and  darts, 
First  at  one,  and  then  its  fellow, 
Just  as  light  and  just  as  yellow  ! 
Such  a  light  of  gladness  breaks, 
Pretty  kitten,  from  thy  freaks, 
Spreads,  with  such  a  living  grace, 
O'er  my  little  Laura's  face  ! 
Yes,  the  sight  so  stirs  and  charms 
Thee,  baby,  laughing  in  my  arms, 
That  almost  I  could  repine 
That  your  transports  are  not  mine  ; 
That  I  do  not  wholly  fare 
Even  as  ye  do,  thoughtless  pair  ! 


THE  KITTEN  AND  THE  LEAVES.       291 

And  I  will  have  my  careless  season, 

Spite  of  melancholy  reason  ; 

Will  walk  through  life  in  such  a  way, 

That,  when  time  brings  on  decay, 

Now  and  then  I  may  possess 

Hours  of  perfect  gladsomeness. 

—  Pleased  by  any  random  toy ;  . 

By  a  kitten's  busy  joy, 

Or  an  infant's  laughing  eye, 

Sharing  in  the  ecstasy. 

I  would  fare  like  that,  or  this  ; 

Find  my  wisdom  in  my  bliss  ; 

Keep  the  sprightly  soul  awake  ; 

And  have  faculties  to  take, 

Even  from  things  by  sorrow  wrought, 

Matter  for  a  jocund  thought ; 

Spite  of  care  and  spite  of  grief, 

To  jrambol  with  Life's  falling  leaf. 


His  sixty  summers  —  what  are  they  in  truth  ? 
By  Providence  peculiarly  blest, 
With  him  the  strong  hilarity  of  youth 
Abides,  despite  gray  hairs,  a  constant  guest. 
His  snn  has  veered  a  point  toward  the  west, 
But  light  as  dawn  his  heart  is  glowing  yet,  — 
That  heart  the  simplest,  gentlest,  kindliest,  best, 
Where  truth  and  manly  tenderness  are  met 
With  faith  and  heavenward  hope,  the  suns  that  never  set. 

HENKY  TAYLOR. 


DR.    DODDRIDGE'S    DREAM. 


R.  DODDRIDGE  was  on  terms  of 
very  intimate  friendship  with  Dr.  Sam- 
uel Clarke,  and  in  religious  conversation 
they  spent  many  happy  hours  together. 
Among  other  matters,  a  very  favorite  topic  was 
the  intermediate  state  of  the  soul,  and  the  proba- 
bility that  at  the  instant  of  dissolution  it  was  not 
introduced  into  the  presence  of  all  the  heavenly 
hosts,  and  the  splendors  around  the  throne  of  God. 
One  evenin'T,  after  a  conversation  of  this  nature, 

~  '  ' 

Dr.  Doddridge  retired  to  rest  with  his  mind  full 

~ 

of  the  subject  discussed,  and,  in  the  '  visions  of 
the  night,'  his  ideas  were  shaped  into  the  follow- 
ing beautiful  form.  He  dreamed  that  he  was  at 
the  house  of  a  friend,  when  he  was  suddenly 
taken  dangerously  ill.  By  degrees  he  seemed  to 
grow  worse,  and  at  last  to  expire.  In  an  instant 
he  was  sensible  that  he  exchanged  the  prison- 
house  and  sufferings  of  mortality  for  a  state  of 
liberty  and  happiness.  Embodied  in  a  splendid 
aerial  form,  he  seemed  to  float  in  a  region  of  pure 


DR.  DODDRIDGE'S  DREAM.  293 

light.  Beneath  him  lay  the  earth  ;  but  not  a 
glittering  city  or  village,  the  forest  or  the  sea,  was 
visible.  There  was  naught  to  be  seen  below  save 
the  melancholy  group  of  friends,  weeping  around 
his  lifeless  remains. 

Himself  thrilled  with  delight,  he  was  surprised 
at  their  tears,  and  attempted  to  inform  them  of  his 
change  ;  but,  by  some  mysterious  power,  utter- 
ance was  denied  ;  and,  as  he  anxiously  leaned  over 
the  mourning  circle,  gazing  fondly  upon  them,  and 
struggling  to  speak,  he  rose  silently  upon  the  air  ; 
their  forms  became  more  and  more  distant,  and 
gradually  melted  away  from  his  sight.  Repos- 
ing upon  golden  clouds,  he  found  himself  swiftly 
mounting  the  skies,  with  a  venerable  figure  at 
his  side  guiding  his  mysterious  movement,  in 
whose  countenance  he  remarked  the  lineaments 
of  youth  and  age  were  blended  together  with  an 
intimate  harmony  and  majestic  sweetness.  They 
travelled  through  a  vast  region  of  empty  space, 
until  at  length  the  battlements  of  a  glorious  edifice 
shone  in  the  distance  ;  and  as  its  form  rose  brilliant 
and  distinct  among  the  far-off  shadows  that  flitted 
across  their  path,  the  guide  informed  him,  that  the 
palace  he  beheld  was  for  the  present  to  be  his 
.mansion  of  rest.  Gazing  upon  its  splendor,  he 
replied,  that  while  on  earth  he  had  heard  that  eye 
had  not  seen,  nor  had  the  ear  heard,  nor  could  it 
enter  into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive,  the  thino-s 

'  O 

which  God  had  prepared  for  those  who  love  him  • 


294  DR.  DODDRIDGE'S  DREAM. 

but,  notwithstanding  the  building  to  which  they 
were  then  rapidly  approaching  was  superior  to 
anything  he  had  ever  before  seen,  yet  its  grandeur 
did  not  exceed  the  conceptions  he  had  formed. 

They  were  already  at  the  door,  and  the  guide, 
without  reply,  introduced  him  into  a  spacious 
apartment,  at  the  extremity  of  which  stood  a  table 
covered  with  a  snow-white  cloth,  a  golden  cup, 
and  a  cluster  of  grapes,  and  there  he  said  he  must 
remain,  for  he  would  receive  in  a  short  time  a 
visit  from  the  Lord  of  the  mansion,  and  that, 
during  the  interval  before  his  arrival,  the  apart- 
ment would  furnish  him  with  sufficient  entertain- 
ment and  instruction.  The  guide  vanished,  and 
he  was  left  alone.  He  began  to  examine  the 
decorations  of  the  room,  and  observed  that  the 
walls  were  adorned  with  a  number  of  pictures. 
Upon  nearer  inspection,  he  found,  to  his  astonish- 
ment, that  they  formed  a  complete  biography  of 
his  own  life.  Here  he  saw,  upon  the  canvas,  that 
angels,  though  unseen,  had  ever  been  his  familiar 
attendants  ;  that,  sent  by  God,  they  had  sometimes 
preserved  him  from  immediate  peril.  He  beheld 
himself  first  as  an  infant  just  expiring,  when  his 
liie  was  prolonged  by  an  angel  gently  breathing 
into  his  nostrils.  Most  of  the  occurrences  here 
delineated  were  perfectly  familiar  to  his  recollec- 
tion, and  unfolded  many  things  which  he  had 
never  before  understood,  and  which  had  perplexed 
him  with  many  doubts  and  much  uneasiness. 


DR.  DODDRIDGE'S  DREAM.  295 

Among  others,  he  was  particularly  struck  with  a 
picture  in  which  he  was  represented  as  falling 
from  his  horse,  when  death  would  have  been  in- 
evitable, had  not  an  angel  received  him  in  his 
arms,  and  broken  the  force  of  his  descent.  These 
merciful  interpositions  of  God  filled  him  with  joy 
and  gratitude  ;  and  his  heart  overflowed  with  love 
as  he  surveyed  in  them  all  an  exhibition  of  good- 
ness and  mercy  far  beyond  all  that  he  had 
imagined. 

Suddenly  his  attention  was  arrested  by  a  rap  at 
the  door.  The  Lord  of  the  mansion  had  arrived. 
The  door  opened  and  he  entered.  So  powerful 
and  so  overwhelming,  and  withal  of  such  singular 
beauty,  was  his  appearance,  that  he  sank  down 
at  his  feet,  completely  overcome  by  his  majestic 
presence.  His  Lord  gently  raised  him  from  the 
ground,  and  taking  his  hands  led  him  forward  to 
the  table.  He  pressed  with  his  fingers  the  juice 
of  the  grapes  into  the  cup,  and  after  having  drank 
himself,  presented  it  to  him,  saying,  "  This  is  the 
new  wine  in  my  Father's  kingdom."  No  sooner 
had  he  partaken,  than  all  uneasy  sensations  van- 
ished. Perfect  love  had  cast  out  fear,  and  he 
conversed  with  his  Saviour  as  an  intimate  friend. 
Like  the  silver  rippling  of  the  summer  sea,  he 
heard  fall  from  his  lips  the  grateful  approbation  : 
"  Thy  labors  are  over  ;  thy  work  is  approved  ; 
rich  and  glorious  is  thy  reward."  Thrilled  with 
an  unspeakable  bliss,  that  glided  into  the  very 


296  DR.  DODDRIDGE'S  DREAM. 

depth  of  his  soul,  he  suddenly  saw  glories   upon 
glories    bursting    upon    his    view.       The    Doctor 
awoke.     Tears  of  rapture  from  this  joyful  inter- 
view were  rolling  down  his  cheeks.      Lon<r 

o  o 

did  the  lively  impressions  of  this  charm- 
ing dream  remain  upon  his  mind, 
and    never    could    he    speak 
of  it  without  emotions 
of  joy  and    ten- 
derness. 

r 


DEATH  can  only  take  away  the  sorrowful  from 
our  affections.  The  flower  expands  ;  the  colorless 
film  that  enveloped  it  falls  off'  and  perishes.  We 
may  well  believe  this  ;  and,  believing  it,  let  us 
cease  to  be  disquieted  for  their  absence,  who  have 
but  retired  into  another  chamber.  We  are  like 
those  who  have  overslept  the  hour :  when  we 
rejoin  our  friends,  there  is  only  the  more  joyance 
and  congratulation.  Would  we  break  a  precious 
vase  because  it  is  as  capable  of  containing  the 
bitter  as  the  sweet  ?  No :  the  very  things  which 
touch  us  the  most  sensibly  are  those  which  we 
should  be  the  most  reluctant  to  forget.  The  no- 
ble mansion  is  most  distinguished  by  the  beautiful 
images  it  retains  of  beings  passed  away  ;  and  so  is 
the  noble  mind. 

WALTEK  SAVAGE  LANDOK. 


THE    OLD    PSALM-TUNE 

By   HARRIET   BEECHER   STOWE. 

YOU  asked,  dear  friend,  the  other  day, 
Why  still  my  charmed  ear 
Rejoiceth  in  uncultured  tone 
That  old  psalm-tune  to  hear. 

I  Ve  heard  full  oft,  in  foreign  lands, 

The  grand  orchestral  strain, 
"Where  music's  ancient  masters  live, 

Revealed  on  earth  again  : 

Where  breathing,  solemn  instruments, 

In  swaying  clouds  of  sound, 
Bore  up  the  yearning,  tranced  soul, 

Like  silver  wings  around ;  — 

I  've  heard  in  old  St.  Peter's  dome, 

When  clouds  of  incense  rise, 
Most  ravishing  the  choral  swell 

Mount  upward  to  the  skies. 

And  well  I  feel  the  magic  power, 

When  skilled  and  cultured  art 
Its  cunning  webs  of  sweetness  weaves 

Around  the  captured  heart. 
13* 


298  THE   OLD  PSALM-TUNE. 

But  yet,  dear  friend,  though  rudely  sung, 
That  old  psalm-tune  hath  still 

A  pulse  of  power  beyond  them  all 
My  inmost  soul  to  thrill. 

Those  tones,  that  halting  sound  to  you, 

Are  not  the  tones  I  hear ; 
But  voices  of  the  loved  and  lost 

Then  meet  my  longing  ear. 

I  hear  my  angel  mother's  voice,  — 
Those  were  the  words  she  sung ; 

I  hear  my  brother's  ringing  tones, 
As  once  on  earth  they  rung ; 

And  friends  that  walk  in  white  above 
Come  round  me  like  a  cloud, 

And  far  above  those  earthly  notes 
Their  singing  sounds  aloud. 

There  may  be  discord,  as  you  say ; 

Those  voices  poorly  ring ; 
But  there 's  no  discord  in  the  strain 

Those  upper  spirits  sing. 

For  they  who  sing  are  of  the  blest, 

The  calm  and  glorified, 
Whose  hours  are  one  eternal  rest 

On  heaven's  sweet  floating  tide. 

Their  life  is  music  and  accord  ; 

Their  souls  and  hearts  keep  time 
In  one  sweet  concert  with  the  Lord,  — 

One  concert  vast,  sublime. 


THE   OLD  PSALM-TUNE.  299 

And  through  the  hymns  they  sang  on  earth 

Sometimes  a  sweetness  falls, 
On  those  they  loved  and  left  below, 

And  softly  homeward  calls. 

Bells  from  our  own  dear  fatherland, 

Borne  trembling  o'er  the  sea  — 
The  narrow  sea  that  they  have  crossed, 

The  shores  where  we  shall  be. 

O  sing,  sing  on !  beloved  souls  ; 

Sing  cares  and  griefs  to  rest ; 
Sing,  till  entranced  we  arise 

To  join  you  'mid  the  blest. 


0,  THUS  forever  sing  to  me ! 

O,  thus  forever ! 

The  green  bright  grass  of  childhood  bring  to  me, 
Flowing  like  an  emerald  river, 
And  the  bright  blue  skies  above ! 
O,  sing  them  back  as  fresh  as  ever, 
Into  the  bosom  of  my  love,  — 
The  sunshine  and  the  merriment, 
The  unsought,  evergreen  content, 

Of  that  never  cold  time, 
The  joy,  that,  like  a  clear  breeze,  went 
Through  and  through  the  old  time  ! 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


THE    LOST    BOOKS   OF    LIVY. 


[It  is  well  known  that  all  the  books  of  the  Middle  Ages  were 
written  by  monks,  and  preserved  in  manuscript ;  printing  being 
then  an  unknown  art.  These  patient  scribes  had  plenty  of  lei- 
sure, and  not  unfrequendy  an  eye  for  artistic  beauty,  especially  in 
the  gorgeous  style.  Hence  many  monastic  manuscripts  were 
richly  illuminated,  as  the  phrase  is,  with  Initial  Letters  of  silver 
or  gold,  often  surrounded  witli  quaint  devices,  painted  in  glowing 
tints  of  blue,  crimson,  and  purple.  Paper  was  not  then  invented, 
and  parchment  was  scarce.  Monks  generally  held  Greeks  and 
Romans  in  contempt,  as  heathen,  and  therefore  did  not  scruple  to 
supply  themselves  with  writing  material  by  erasing  the  produc- 
tions of  classic  authors.  Early  in  the  nineteenth  century  it  was 
announced  that  Signor  Maio,  an  Italian  librarian,  had  discovered 
valuable  Greek  and  Latin  fragments  concealed  under  monkish 
manuscripts,  and  that,  by  chemical  processes,  lie  could  remove 
the  later  writing  and  bring  the  ancient  to  the  surface.  In  this 
way,  "  The  Republic,"  of  Cicero,  deemed  one  of  his  finest  works, 
was  brought  out  from  under  a  Commentary  of  St.  Augustine  on 
the  Psalms  of  David.  Such  parchments  are  called  Palimpsest* ; 
from  two  Greek  words,  which  signify  erased  and  re-written.  The 
discovery  was  very  exciting  to  the  scholastic  world,  and  many 
learned  men  entered  into  it  with  absorbing  interest.  Several  of 
the  books  of  Livy's  lively  and  picturesque  History  of  Rome  are 
lost  ;  and  it  was  a  cherished  hope  among  scholars  that  they 
might  be  discovered  by  this  new  process.  This  explanation  is 


THE  LOST  BOOKS  OF  LIVY.     301 

necessary  to  help  some  readers  to  a  right  understanding  of  the 
following  story,  which  is  abridged  and  slightly  varied  from  an 
English  book,  entitled,  "  Stories  by  an  Archaeologist."] 

|f  Y  dear  friend,  Dubois  d'Erville,  whose 
talents  might  have  rendered  him  re- 
markable in  any  walk  of  literature, 
allowed  the  whole  of  his  faculties  to 
be  absorbed  in  days,  nights,  years  of  research, 
upon  one  special  point  of  literary  interest.  At 
school,  he  had  become  imbued  with  a  love  for 
classic  authors,  which,  with  regard  to  his  favorite 
Livy,  kindled  into  a  passion.  He  sought  eagerly 
for  accounts  of  discoveries  of  lost  works  in  pa- 
limpsest manuscripts.  Finally,  he  relinquished  all 
other  objects  of  pursuit,  and  spent  many  years 
traversing  Europe  and  Asia,  visiting  the  public 
libraries  and  old  monasteries,  in  search  of  ancient 
manuscripts.  After  a  long  time,  when  he  was  for- 
gotten by  family,  friends,  and  acquaintances,  he 
returned  to  Paris.  Little  was  known  of  his  wan- 
derings ;  but  there  was  a  rumor  that  he  formed  a 
romantic  marriage,  and  that  his  devoted  wife  had 
travelled  with  him  among  the  monasteries  of  Asia 
Minor,  encountering  many  hardships  and  dangers. 
No  one  but  himself  knew  where  she  died. 

When  he  returned  to  Paris,  he  brought  with 
him  an  only  child,  a  girl  of  nineteen.  She  had 
memorable  beauty,  and  great  intelligence  ;  but  these 
were  less  noticed  than  her  simple  manners,  and 
tender  devotion  to  her  father,  whom  she  almost 


302  THE  LOST  BOOKS   OF  LIVY. 

adored.  He  took  a  suite  of  apartments  in  the 
third  story  of  a  house,  which,  before  the  Revolu- 
tion, had  been  the  hotel  of  a  nobleman,  and  sur- 
rounded by  extensive  gardens.  It  was  in  the  old 
and  solitary  Rue  Cassette.  The  gardens  had  been 
let  out  to  cow-keepers  ;  but  within  the  enclosure 
of  the  house  remained  some  noble  trees  and  flow- 
ering shrubs.  These  apartments  had  been  selected 
by  his  daughter  Marcelline,  on  account  of  the  grace- 
ful branches  of  the  old  lime-trees,  which  reached 
close  to  the  windows,  and  furnished  a  pleasant 
shade  in  summer,  when  birds  chirped  gayly  among 
the  green  foliage.  Even  in  winter,  a  robin  would 
sometimes  sing  snatches  of  song,  among  the  naked 
branches,  as  if  in  return  for  the  crumbs  which  his 
pretty  patroness  never  failed  to  place  on  the  win- 
dow-sill. 

Beyond  Marcelline's  chamber  was  a  little  sitting- 
room,  and  then  came  a  rather  large  apartment, 
where  Dubois  pursued  his  studies,  surrounded 
with  piles  of  old  vellum,  and  dusty  and  worm- 
eaten  manuscripts  of  all  descriptions.  The  floor 
was  thus  littered  in  all  directions,  except  in  a  small 
semicircle  near  one  of  the  windows,  where  an  open 
space  was  preserved  for  a  few  chairs  and  a  table. 

They  had  but  one  servant,  an  old  woman,  who 
had  been  cook  in  Dubois's  family  in  the  days  of  his 
boyhood,  and  whom  he  accidentally  met  when  he 
returned  to  Paris.  Old  Madeleine  formed  a  pleas- 
ant link  between  the  present  and  the  past.  Often, 


THE  LOST  BOOKS   OF  LIVY.  303 

when  she  passed  through  his  study,  lie  would 
remind  her  of  some  prank  he  had  played  in  early 
days,  and  ask  her  if  she  remembered  it,  with  such 
a  frank,  good-natured  smile,  that  the  old  servant 
would  smile  too  ;  though  there  was  always  a  tinge 
of  melancholy  in  her  recollections  of  his  boyish 
roguery.  Often,  when  she  left  the  room,  she 
would  shake  her  head,  and  mutter  to  herself,  "  Ah, 
young  Monsieur  Armand  was  so  good,  so  kind,  so 
gentle  !  Only  to  think  that  he  should  leave  all  his 
family  and  friends,  and  pass  his  life  nobody  knows 
where  !  Ah !  it  is  very  mysterious.  And  the 
bright,  curly  hair,  that  I  used  to  pat  with  such 
fondness,  to  think  that  I  should  never  see  him 
again,  till  all  that  is  left  of  it  is  a  few  silver  locks 
about  his  temples  !  "  She  tried  to  gain  from  Mar- 
celline  some  particulars  about  her  mother  ;  but  the 
young  girl  had  only  a  vague  recollection  of  a  form 
that  used  to  press  her  to  her  heart,  during  journeys 
through  strange  countries,  and  who  had  long  disap- 
peared. She  remembered  something  of  a  time  when 
her  father's  tall,  upright  figure  suddenly  bent  under 
the  weight  of  some  great  sorrow,  from  which  it 
never  rose  erect  again.  Then,  when  she  grew  older, 
they  lived  for  years  in  Italian  cities,  where  there 
were  great  libraries  ;  whence  they  came  to  Paris. 

Nothing  could  be  more  delightful  than  the  af- 
fectionate congeniality  between  father  and  daugh- 
ter. Their  favorite  pursuits,  though  different,  had 
a  kind  of  affinity  which  rendered  their  quiet  ex- 


THE  LOST  BOOKS   OF  LIVY. 

istence  very  pleasant.  Marcelline  had  a  taste  for 
painting  ;  and  her  father's  mania  for  old  manu- 
scripts furnished  her  with  many  opportunities  for 
examining  the  exquisite  miniatures  and  ornamental 
illuminations,  with  which  monkish  manuscripts 
were  frequently  enriched.  When  new  manu- 
scripts arrived,  which  they  did  almost  daily,  her 
first  impulse  was  to  examine  whether  they  con- 
tained any  illuminations  worthy  of  note  ;  and  if 
so,  to  copy  them  with  the  utmost  care  and  accu- 
racy. She  had  thus  formed  a  very  beautiful  col- 
lection, in  which  she  felt  an  interest  almost  as 
enthusiastic  as  that  of  her  father  in  his  long  pur- 
suit of  a  treasure,  which,  like  the  horizon,  seemed 
always  in  sight,  but  was  never  reached. 

In  the  midst  of  the  charming,  harmonious  rou- 
tine of  this  little  household,  slight  contentions 
would  sometimes  arise ;  but  they  were  sure  to 
end,  like  the  quarrels  of  lovers,  in  a  renewal  of 
love.  Sometimes  a  manuscript  arrived  which  con- 
tained exquisite  illuminations  ;  but  Dubois,  think- 
ing it  might  be  a  palimpsest,  regarded  the  orna- 
ments as  so  many  abominations,  concealing  some 
treasure  of  classic  literature.  So  the  mediaeval 
romance,  with  its  matchless  miniatures,  and  intri- 
cate borderings,  glowing  with  gilding,  purple,  and 
crimson,  would  soon  disappear  beneath  the  sponge, 
soap,  and  acids  of  the  indefatigable  seeker  after 
The  Lost  Books  of  Livy.  These  occasions  were 
sad  trials  for  Marcelline.  She  would  beg  for  a 


THE  LOST  BOOKS   OF  LIVY.  305 

week's  delay,  just  to  copy  the  most  beautiful  of 
the  illuminations.  But  if  Dubois  thought  he  could 
perceive  traces  of  erasure  under  the  gorgeous 
ornaments,  he  was  as  impatient  as  a  miner  who 
fancies  he  sees  indications  of  a  vein  of  gold. 
When  Marcelline  saw  the  sponge  trembling  in  his 
hand,  so  eager  to  commence  the  work  of  oblitera- 
tion, she  would  turn  away  with  a  painful  sense  of 
what  seemed  to  her  a  cruel  desecration.  She  felt 
that  the  sacrifice  was  due  to  the  cause  in  which  her 
father  had  enlisted  all  the  energies  of  his  life  :  but 

~  •* 

the  ruthless  destruction  of  all  those  quaint  and  del- 
icately beautiful  works  of  art  caused  her  a  pang 
she  could  not  quite  conceal.  In  spite  of  herself,  a 
tear  would  glisten  in  her  eye  ;  and  the  moment 
her  father  perceived  it,  his  resolution  melted.  He 
would  place  the  manuscript  in  her  hand,  and  say, 
"  There,  there,  my  child  !  a  whole  week  if  you 
want  it ;  and  then  bring  it  to  me,  if  you  have 
quite  done  with  it."  Then  she  would  reply,  "  No, 
no,  dear  father.  Your  object  is  too  important  to 
be  hindered  by  the  whims  of  a  foolish  girl."  He 
would  press  it  upon  her,  and  she  would  refuse  it ; 
and  as  the  combat  of  love  went  on,  the  old  man's 
eyes  would  fill  with  tears.  Then  Marcelline  would 
give  way,  and  take  the  proffered  manuscript ;  and 
Dubois,  with  all  the  attentive  politeness  of  a  young 
lover,  would  arrange  her  desk,  and  her  pieces  of 
new  vellum,  and  place  the  volume  in  a  good  light. 
Not  till  he  had  seen  her  fairly  at  work  at  her 


306  THE  LOST  BOOKS   OF  LIVY. 

charming  task,  could  he  tear  himself  away ;  and  then 
not  without  pressing  her  hand,  and  nodding  to  her, 
as  though  they  were  going  to  part  for  some  long 
period.  She  would  nod  too  ;  and  then  they  both 
nodded  together,  smiling  at  their  own  affectionate 
folly,  with  tears  glistening  in  their  eyes.  Then 
Dubois  would  go  to  his  study,  and  among  his 
heaps  of  manuscripts,  bound  and  unbound,  rolled 
or  folded,  he  would  soon  be  immersed  in  the  in- 
tricacies of  his  old  pursuit. 

After  a  while,  the  even  current  of  their  happy 
life  became  varied  by  the  visits  of  a  third  person. 
When  old  Madeleine  came  to  live  with  them,  Du- 
bois often  questioned  her  concerning  the  relatives 
and  friends  he  had  known  in  his  boyhood.  Her 
answer  was,  invariably,  "  Dead."  It  seemed  as  if 
all  the  old  he  inquired  for  were  dead,  and  all  the 
young  either  dead  or  scattered.  During  one  of 
these  conversations,  he  said,  "  What  has  become 
of  Uncle  Debaye,  who  used  to  prophesy  that  I 
should  be  a  member  of  the  Academy,  and  one  of 
the  illustrious  men  of  France?  Ah,  he  was  a 
pleasant  specimen  of  the  old  bachelor  and  the  ban 
vivant !  Where  is  he?"  "He  is  dead,  too," 
replied  Madeleine  ;  "  but  he  did  not  remain  an  old 
bachelor  and  a  bon  vivant.  He  married,  some  two 
and  twenty  years  ago,  and  gave  up  his  old  luxuri- 
ous habits  for  the  sake  of  supporting  his  pretty 
young  wife.  He  even  left  off  cigars  and  snuff,  to 
supply  her  with  little  luxuries.  She  is  dead,  too. 


THE  LOST  BOOKS   OF  LIVY.  307 

But  they  had  a  very  pretty  child,  little  Hyppolite, 
who  is  a  young  man  now."  "  Then  it  seems  that 
I  have  one  relative  remaining,"  said  Dubois  ;  "  but 
I  suppose  he  has  gone  off  to  America,  or  Austra- 
lia, or  somewhere."  "  No,  Monsieur,"  rejoined 
Madeleine,  "  he  is  in  Paris.  He  got  a  situation 
out  by  the  Barriere  du  Trone,  where  he  has  two 
thousand  francs  a  year,  and  apartments  in  the  fac- 
tory to  live  in  besides.  I  often  meet  him  on  a 
Sunday,  in  the  gardens  of  the  Luxembourg,  and 
many  a  forty  sous  has  he  given  me." 

Dubois  was  pleased  to  find  that  he  had  one  rela- 
tive left,  and  Madeleine  was  commissioned  to  tell 
him  that  his  father's  brother-in-law,  his  uncle  by 
marriage,  had  returned  to  Paris,  and  would  be 
glad  to  see  him.  The  young  man  came  soon  after, 
and  father  and  daughter  were  both  pleased  with 
their  new-found  kinsman.  He  was  not  very  intel- 
lectual or  learned  ;  but  he  was  lively,  good-natured, 
and  good-looking.  He  brought  the  living,  moving 
world  of  the  present  into  those  secluded  apart- 
ments, so  entirely  consecrated  to  the  works  and 
thoughts  of  ages  long  past.  His  free-and-easy 
conversation,  without  a  single  phrase  smacking  of 
libraries,  or  art-galleries,  or  any  kind  of  learning, 
seemed  a  bright  sparkling,  stream  of  young  care- 
less life.  His  uncle  listened  willingly  to  his  gos- 
siping anecdotes,  told  with  a  certain  appreciation 
of  the  comic,  in  a  clear,  ringing  voice,  and  with 
good-natured  laughter.  Hyppolite  became  a  very 


308  THE  LOST  BOOKS  OF  LIVY. 

welcome  visitor  ;  and,  after  a  while,  if  he  did  not 
appear  on  the  days  when  he  was  regularly  ex- 
pected, a  shadow  of  disappointment  was  cast  over 
the  little  household  in  the  Rue  Cassette. 

Thus  things  went  on  for  some  time.  Marcelline 
daily  added  to  her  collection  of  exquisite  fac-similes, 
and  her  father  labored  diligently  in  the  cause  to 
which  he  had  devoted  his  life.  He  did  not  obtain 
the  result  he  so  ardently  desired  ;  but  his  perse- 
verance was  not  without  reward.  On  two  occa- 
sions he  discovered  works  of  great  importance,  in 
a  literary  point  of  view,  covered  over  with  a  mass 
of  old  law  transactions  ;  and  the  sums  he  obtained 
for  them  enabled  him  greatly  to  increase  his  stock 
of  manuscripts.  He  soon  became  so  well  known 
to  all  who  dealt  in  such  articles,  that  every  new 
importation  was  offered  to  him,  before  it  was 
shown  elsewhere. 

Meanwhile  Marcelline  received  increasing  pleas- 
ure from  the  visits  of  Hyppolite.  She  began  to 
suspect  that  the  trivial  chat  uttered  in  that  fresh 
young  voice,  with  occasional  peals  of  ringing 
laughter,  possessed  for  her  a  greater  charm  than 
the  noble  words  of  her  father,  always  teeming  with 
knowledge  and  interest  of  various  kinds.  She 
shrunk  from  admitting  this  to  herself.  She  would 
not  believe  it,  but  she  had  an  uneasy  suspicion  of 
it.  As  for  Hyppolite,  his  walk  of  two  or  three 
miles,  to  visit  his  new-found  relatives,  became  his 
greatest  pleasure.  He  found  innumerable  oppor- 


THE  LOST  BOOKS  OF  L1VY.  309 

tnnities  of  making  the  Rue  Cassette  the  shortest 
out  to  one  or  other  of  the  distant  quarters  of 
Paris,  where  the  business  of  his  employers  carried 
him,  though  in  fact  it  was  often  miles  out  of  his 
way.  To  gratify  Marcelline's  peculiar  taste,  he 
frequently  brought  her  ornaments  cut  from  the 
pages  of  old  illuminated  manuscripts.  When  asked 
where  he  obtained  them,  he  would  merely  laugh, 
and  say  he  would  bring  some  more  soon.  Dubois 
began  to  remonstrate  against  the  barbarism  of  mu- 
tilating manuscripts  in  that  way  ;  but  Hyppolite 
would  point  to  the  piles  of  manuscripts  from  which 
Tie  had  washed  both  ornaments  and  writing,  and 
would  put  on  such  a  comic  look,  and  laugh  so 
merrily,  that  his  uncle  could  not  help  laughing, 
too. 

One  calm  summer  evening,  Dubois  had  gone  to 
the  busy  part  of  Paris,  and  Marcelline  sat  at  the 
window,  busily  employed  in  copying  a  noble  group 
of  illuminated  letters  from  a  gorgeous  manuscript 
of  the  twelfth  century,  which  stood  on  the  desk 
before  her.  The  window  was  open,  and  the  air 
gently  moved  the  leaves  of  crisp  vellum,  with  their 
antique  writing  and  their  curious  enrichments.  The 
massive  silver  clasps  of  the  great  folio  hung  back 
and  glistened  in  the  evening  light.  As  the  young 
artist  looked  up  at  her  model,  she  felt  tempted  to 
make  a  drawing  of  the  whole  superb  volume,  in- 
stead of  the  especial  group  of  letters  she  was  copy- 
ing. The  foliage  of  the  lime-trees  moved  gently 


310  THE  LOST  BOOKS   OF  LIVY. 

in  the  warm  evening  breeze,  and  a  linnet,  hidden 
in  its  recesses,  was  singing  his  vesper  hymn.  Mar- 
celline  felt  very  happy.  The  balmy  hour,  the 
congenial  employment,  and  the  bright  halo  of  her 
twenty  young  years,  threw  around  her  an  atmos- 
phere of  soft,  pure,  gentle  pleasure.  Thoughts 
of  more  homely  things  mingled  with  her  poetic 
mood.  She  thought  of  the  choice  little  supper 
Madeleine  Avas  preparing  for  her  father,  and  she 
tried  to  conjecture  when  he  would  arrive. 

The  current  of  her  ideas  was  interrupted  by  the 
ringing  of  the  bell  on  the  landing,  and  Madeleine 
announced  the  arrival  of  Monsieur  Hyppolite. 
An  uncontrollable  thrill  lifted  her  heart  with  one 
great  bound.  For  a  moment  the  illuminated  vol- 
ume, the  sweet  summer  breeze,  the  tuneful  linnet, 
and  the  little  supper  for  her  father,  were  all  for- 
gotten. By  a  strong  effort  she  recovered  herself, 
however,  and  received  Hyppolite  as  usual ;  per- 
haps a  little  more  coolly,  for  she  was  inwardly 
shocked  to  find  that  his  presence  had  power,  even 
for  a  moment,  to  obliterate  the  pleasures  and 
affections  she  had  always  deemed  so  sacred.  He 
brought  two  beautifully  illuminated  letters,  that 
had  evidently  formed  part  of  a  very  fine  Italian 
manuscript.  Being  in  an  unusual  style  of  art, 
they  attracted  her  attention,  and  diverted  her 
thoughts  from  the  channel  they  had  taken.  She 

O  V 

reseated  herself  at  her  work  ;  and  while  he  watched 
her  skilful  pencil  tracing  the  intricate  interlacings 


THE  LOST  BOOKS   OF  LIVY.  311 

of  various  and  many-colored  lines  and  branches, 
he  sought  to  entertain  her  with  his  usual  light 
chat.  But  Marcelline  did  not  respond  so  gayly 
as  she  was  accustomed  to  do,  and  he  grew  un- 
\vontedly  silent ;  so  silent,  that  the  song  of  the 
linnet  was  heard  again,  and  no  other  sound  dis- 

O  ' 

turbed  the  stillness.  At  last,  Hyppolite,  with  a 
great  effort,  and  as  if  something  choked  his  usual 
clear  utterance,  said,  "  Marcelline,  you  must  have 
long  perceived  that  I  — "  she  rose  hastily,  ex- 
claiming, "  O  don't  say  that  word  !  Don't  say 
it !  To  break  the  holy  spell  of  filial  affection 
which  has  always  bound  my  heart,  would  be 
sacrilege."  But  Hyppolite  knelt  at  her  feet,  and 
poured  forth  the  fervid  language  that  comes  to 
all  when  the  heart  is  kindled  by  a  first  love. 
Marcelline  turned  away  her  head  and  wept.  The 
bitter  tears,  not  without  sweetness,  relieved  the 
deep  trouble  of  her  heart.  She  resumed  her  seat, 
and  told  her  cousin  decidedly,  but  kindly,  that 
he  must  never  speak  to  her  of  love  while  her 
dear  father  lived  ;  that  she  could  never  allow  any 
earthly  affection  to  come  between  her  and  him. 
The  young  man,  in  the  midst  of  his  disappoint- 
ment, could  not  but  wish  that  his  uncle  might  live 
long  ;  for  he  truly  loved  his  genial  nature,  and 
regarded  his  great  learning  with  almost  super- 
stitious veneration.  He  held  out  his  hand,  saying, 
"  My  cousin,  it  is  the  hand  of  friendship."  She 
pressed  it  kindly,  and  gently  admonished  him  that 


312  THE  LOST  BOOKS   OF  LIVY. 

his  visits  must  be  less  frequent.  After  a  brief 
struggle  he  resigned  himself  to  her  guidance,  and 
recovered  his  equanimity,  if  not  his  usual  gayety. 
All  was  peaceful  and  pleasant  when  Dubois  re- 
turned, and  Hyppolite  was  urged  to  stay  and 
partake  of  the  choice  little  supper. 

The  household  continued  to  go  on  in  the  old 
quiet  way,  varied  occasionally  by  visits  from  an- 
tiquarians and  learned  men.  On  such  occasions, 
it  was  charming  to  hear  Dubois  descant  on  his 
favorite  topics  with  the  enthusiasm  and  beautiful 
flow  of  language  which  they  always  excited. 
Marcelline  was  often  appealed  to  in  these  discus- 
sions ;  for  her  intimate  knowledge  of  the  beauties 
of  illumination  enabled  her  to  judge  the  age  of 
a  manuscript,  by  delicate  peculiarities  in  its  orna- 
ments, more  readily  than  learned  men  could  do 
by  the  character  of  the  writing  or  the  nature  of 
the  subject.  Hyppolite,  who  was  sometimes  pres- 
ent by  special  invitation,  would  sit  apart,  drinking 
in  every  delicate  epithet  and  daintly  selected  word 
uttered  by  his  cousin,  as  though  they  were  heaven- 
distilled  drops  of  nectar. 

One  morning,  Dubois  rushed  into  his  daughter's 

o7  o 

apartment,  eagerly  exclaiming,  "  Eureka  !  Eureka  ! 
I  have  found  it!  I  have  found  it!  My  name  will 
go  down  to  posterity  joined  with  that  of  Livy  !  At 
last  I  have  found  The  Lost  Books  !  "  Joyfully,  he 
drew  his  daughter  into  his  study,  and  there,  spread 
upon  the  floor,  were  several  sheets  of  vellum  stili 


THE  LOST  BOOKS  OF  LIVY.  313 

wet  from  the  action  of  his  sponge.  The  more 
recent  writing  had  been  removed,  and  traces  of  a 
nearly  erased  manuscript,  apparently  of  the  tenth 
century,  was  gradually  becoming  more  distinct 
under  the  influence  of  a  preparation  he  had  ap- 
plied. The  old  man  drew  himself  up  as  he  pointed 
to  it,  and  looking  proudly  at  his  daughter,  said, 
"  The  labor  of  my  life  has  been  well  expended. 
It  will  be  my  great  privilege  to  be  the  first  among 
moderns  to  read  the  whole  of  the  noble  history  of 
Livy  ;  for  I  believe  the  whole  is  there."  He  in- 
sisted that  Hyppolite  should  be  sent  for  to  hear 
the  glad  tidings.  The  good-natured  youth  has- 
tened to  the  Rue  Cassette,  and  congratulated  his 
uncle  upon  his  great  discovery.  He  did  not,  in- 
deed, understand  the  importance  of  the  recovered 
annals,  for  he  thought  we  had  a  tolerably  com- 
plete history  of  Rome  without  these  famous  Lost 
Books,  but  he  cordially  sympathized  with  the  joy 
of  his  uncle  and  cousin.  It  was  a  day  marked 
with  "  a  white  stone  "  in  the  annals  of  the  quiet 
little  family.  In  honor  of  the  occasion,  a  bottle 
of  the  choice  wine  called  Chateaux  Margaux, 

O  ' 

was  placed  on  the  generally  frugal  little  dinner- 
table,  and  the  sun  traced  upon  it  bright  lights  and 
shadows  through  the  branches  of  the  lime-trees, 

~  ' 

as  if  to  aid  in  the  celebration. 

Day  by  day,  more  pages  of  the  palimpsest  were 
prepared,  and  the  ancient  text  developed  itself  so 
well,  that  the  exulting  Dubois  resolved  to  invite 

14 


314  THE  LOST  BOOKS   OF  LIVY. 

his  most  learned  friends  to  a  grand  evening  re- 
union, in  honor  of  his  discovery.  A  lithographed 
circular  was  accordingly  prepared,  and  sent  round 
in  due  form.  It  brought  together  a  select  party 
of  the  knowing  ones  in  such  matters.  Dubois  was 

o 

all  smiles  and  urbanity.  In  the  fluent  language,  of 
which  he  had  extraordinary  command,  he  related 
the  successive  details  of  his  discovery.  He  deemed 
himself  the  most  fortunate  of  men.  His  heart  was 
running  over  with  enthusiasm.  His  hearers  were 

o 

charmed  with  the-  copious  flood  of  eloquence  that 
he  poured  forth  without  stint,  full  of  the  deepest 
erudition,  yet  warmed  and  embellished  by  a  per- 
vading gleam  of  amiable  exhilaration,  and  inno- 
cent exultation  over  the  triumphant  result  of  his 
life-long  labors.  The  sheets  of  the  recovered 
manuscript  were  placed  in  a  good  light,  and  eager- 
ly examined  through  many  pairs  of  glittering  spec- 
tacles and  powerful  microscopes.  It  obviously 
related  to  that  portion  of  Roman  history  lost  from 
the  books  of  Livy,  but  many  doubts  were  expressed 
whether  it  were  written  by  that  great  historian. 
Peculiarities  of  orthography  and  style  were  ad- 
duced to  prove  that  the  writer  must  have  been 
a  monk.  But  Dubois  ingeniously  converted  every 
objection  into  an  additional  proof  that  they  had 
before  them  the  identical  Lost  Books  of  Livy. 

The  animated  discussion  was  interrupted  by  the 
entrance  of  Madeleine,  who  said  that  two  men  were 
at  the  door,  with  old  manuscripts  to  sell.  Dubois 


THE  LOST  BOOKS   OF  LIVY.  315 

could  never  resist  the  temptation  to  examine  musty 
vellum,  and  he  ordered  them  to  be  shown  in.  The 
manuscripts  did  not  prove  to  be  of  any  value  ; 
and  Madeleine  was  very  glad  to  close  the  door 
upon  the  intruders,  for  she  did  not  like  their  looks. 
A  similar  impression  seemed  to  have  been  made 
on  the  company  ;  for  several  of  them  remarked 
that  it  was  hazardous  to  introduce  men  of  that 
stamp  into  a  room  filled  with  books  clasped  with 
silver,  and  with  many  other  ancient  articles  of  cu- 
rious workmanship,  some  of  them  in  the  precious 
metals.  But  Dubois  laughed  at  the  idea  that  any- 
body would  think  of  robbing  a  poor  book-antiqua- 
rian of  his  musty  treasures,  though  some  of  them 
were  clasped  with  silver. 

The  dimensions  of  the  table  were  enlarged  by 
piles  of  huge  folios,  and  Madeleine  spread  it  with 
choice  viands,  in  the  discussion  of  which  the  style 
and  orthography  of  Livy  were  for  a  while  forgot- 
ten. The  lively  sallies  of  Hyppolite,  his  funny 
anecdotes,  and  descriptions  of  practical  jokes,  be- 
gan to  entertain  the  guests  more  than  their  own 
conversation.  His  merry,  thrilling  laugh  became 
infectious.  First,  his  pretty  cousin  joined  in  with 
her  silvery  treble  ;  then  Dubois  ;  then  all  of  them. 
No  one,  listening  to  this  hilarious  chorus,  would 
have  supposed  the  company  consisted  of  the  most 
profound  scholars  that  ever  enlightened  the  halls 
of  the  Institute  or  the  Academy. 

Dubois  went  to  sleep  that  happy  night  dreaming 


316  THE  LOST  BOOKS   OF  LIVY. 

of  new  discoveries  among  the  as  yet  unrestored 
leaves  of  his  precious  palimpsest.  He  was  wak- 
ened very  early  in  the  morning  by  a  loud  knock 
at  his  door,  and  heard  the  voice  of  old  Madeleine 
crying  out,  "  Monsieur  Dubois  !  Monsieur  Du- 
bois  !  Get  up  !  Pray  get  up  immediately  !  "  He 
hurried  on  his  dressing-gown,  and  found  Madeleine 
in  the  middle  of  his  study,  her  eyes  streaming  with 
tears.  The  room  where  he  had  heaped  up  so  many 
treasures,  where  he  had  spent  so  many  hours  of 
calm  happiness,  where  he  had  the  last  evening 
enjoyed  so  much,  was  empty.  The  pile  of  folios, 
the  rows  of  richly-bound  manuscripts,  with  the 
velvet  covers  and  silver  clasps,  his  precious  pa- 
limpsest, and  even  the  bundles  of  musty  vellum, 
had  all  disappeared.  The  window  was  open,  and 
the  little  curtain  torn  ;  plainly  indicating  how  the 
robbers  had  obtained  entrance  into  his  sanctuary. 
The  linnet  was  singing  a  morning  song  in  the  lime- 
trees,  and  the  early  sun  checkered  the  empty  floor 
with  bright  light  and  quivering  shadows  of  the  foli- 
age. It  seemed  as  if  the  sweet  sounds  and  the  bril- 
liant rays  were  rejoicing  over  a  scene  of  gladness, 
instead  of  such  utter  desolation  and  wretchedness. 
No  words  can  describe  the  pangs  which  wruno 
the  heart  of  poor  Dubois,  thus  suddenly  anc 
strangely  deprived  of  the  treasure  which  he  hac 
spent  all  the  energies  of  his  life  in  discovering. 
For  a  moment,  his  eyes  glared  with  rage,  like  those 
of  a  tiger  deprived  of  her  young.  Then  he  clasped 


THE  LOST  BOOKS   OF  LIVY.  317 

his  trembling  hands,  and  fell  heavily,  nearly  faint- 
ing, into  his  chair.  Alarmed  by  the  sound  of  his 
fall,  Marcelline  came  running  in.  It  was  long  be- 
fore she  and  old  Madeleine  could  rouse  him  from 
his  lethargy.  At  last,  his  stupefied  senses  were 
awakened  and  concentrated  by  his  daughter's  re- 
peated assurances  that  the  lost  treasure  would  be 
recovered  if  an  immediate  pursuit  were  instituted. 
"  It  is  not  likely,"  said  she,  "  that  we  shall  recover 
the  richly-illuminated  manuscripts,  in  their  valua- 
ble bindings  ;  or  the  carved  ivories  ;  or  those  co- 
dices written  in  gold  upon  grounds  of  purple  ;  but 
the  sheets  of  that  old  palimpsest,  with  its  half- 
obliterated  characters,  and  the  old  volume  contain- 
ing the  rest  of  the  work,  cannot  possibly  be  of  use 
to  anybody  but  yourself.  Those  can  surely  be 
recovered." 

A  flood  of  passionate  tears  came  to  her  father's 
relief.  His  usual  calmness  was  restored  ;  and 
after  drinking  a  cup  of  coffee,  urged  upon  him  by 
the  kind  old  Madeleine,  he  hurried  forth  to  give 
information  to  the  police,  and  to  make  all  possible 
efforts  to  recover  his  treasures. 

Some  fragments  of  parchment  were  found  under 
the  lime-trees,  but  no  further  traces  were  discov- 
ered, till  lute  in  the  forenoon  it  was  ascertained 
that  one  of  the  richly-bound  manuscripts  had  been 
offered  to  a  dealer  for  sale.  In  the  afternoon,  an- 
other clew  was  obtained  from  a  waste-paper  dealer, 
who  described  a  quantity  of  parchment  brought  to 


818  THE  LOST  BOOKS   OF  LIVY. 

him  that  morning,  which  lie  had  not,  however,  pur- 
chased. From  the  description,  it  appeared  that 
the  precious  palimpsest  was  among  these  bundles. 
Dubois's  hopes  were  kindled  by  this  information. 
He  was  recommended  to  go  to  the  establishments 
of  various  dealers  in  such  articles  in  remote  quar- 
ters of  the  city,  and,  accompanied  by  the  police, 
he  made  diligent  search.  Only  one  more  remained, 
and  that  was  close  to  the  Barriere  du  Trone. 

Arrived  at  this  establishment,  Dubois  was  sur- 
prised to  see  his  nephew  mounted  aloft  at  a  desk 
in  the  inner  warehouse  ;  for  he  had  never  inquired 
concerning  the  nature  of  the  factory  in  which  he 
was  employed.  As  soon  as  Hyppolite  perceived 
his  uncle,  he  hurried  forward  to  welcome  him, 
and  told  him  he  had  intended  to  call  at  the  Rue 
Cassette  that  day,  for  he  had  just  obtained  pos- 
session of  two  illuminated  letters  that  he  wished 
to  present  to  Mademoiselle  Marcelline.  He  took 
two  slips  of  vellum  from  his  desk  ;  "  See,"  said 
he,  "  these  are  very  much  in  the  style  of  that  old 
Roman  History  you  were  exhibiting  to  the  com- 
pany last  night." 

"  Very  much  in  the  style  !  "  exclaimed  Dubois, 
his  eyes  glistening  with  delight.  "  They  are 
identical  !  Where  did  you  get  them  ?  " 

"  Our  foreman  sent  them  down  to  me,"  re- 
joined Hyppolite.  "  We  purchase  enormous  quan- 
tities of  old  parchment,  and  frequently  a  few 
painted  letters  are  found  in  the  mass.  Our  man- 


THE  LOST  BOOKS   OF  LIVY.  319 

ager,  in  compliance  with  my  request,  cuts   them 
out  and  reserves  them  for  me." 

"  Then  the  vellum  from  which  they  were  cut 
is  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is,  uncle  ;  but  why  are  you  so  agi- 
tated ?  " 

"  Dubois  briefly  related  the  circumstances  of 
the  robbery ;  and  wiping  the  cold  perspiration 
from  his  brow,  he  added:  "But  all  is  safe  now! 
I  would  not  walk  twenty  paces  to  recover  all  the 
silver-clasped  volumes,  if  I  can  only  hold  once 
more  the  musty  palimpsest  which  contains  that 
priceless  treasure,  —  The  Lost  Books  of  Livy  !  " 

The  flush  faded  from  Hyppolite's  ruddy  cheek. 
"  There  is  not  a  moment  to  be  lost !  "  exclaimed 
he.  "  Follow  me,  dear  uncle." 

Away  he  ran  across  court-yards,  through  long 
warehouses  filled  with  merchandise,  and  up  flights 
of  stairs,  two  steps  at  a  bound.  Dubois,  highly 
excited,  followed  with  the  activity  of  youth. 
They  reached  a  small  room  adjoining  an  enormous 
mass  of  lofty  chimneys,  from  which  heavy  col- 
umns of  smoke  rolled  away  before  the  wind. 

"  Where  is  the  lot  of  old  vellum  that  came 
this  morning  ?  "  gasped  Hyppolite,  all  out  of 
breath. 

A  man  who  was  busy  checking  off  accounts, 
asked,  "  Do  you  mean  the  lot  from  which  you 
cut  those  two  letters  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  replied  Hyppolite.  "  Where  is  it  ? 
Where  is  it  ?  It  is  very  important  1  " 


320  THE  LOST  BOOKS   OF  LIVY. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  the  man.  "  It  was  lot 
number  fourteen,  purchased  at  eight  o'clock  this 
morning.  We  happened  to  be  very  short  of  vel- 
lum, and  I  gave  out  that  new  lot  directly."  He 
opened  a  creaking  door,  and  called  out,  "  Pierre ! 
Pierre  !  what  was  the  number  of  the  lot  you  put 
in  last?" 

"  Number  fourteen,"  replied  a  deep  voice  with- 
in ;  and  the  door  closed  again,  with  dinning  rattle 
of  rope  and  weight. 

"  It  is  too  late,"  said  the  foreman,  turning  to 
Hyppolite.  "  It  went  in  at  eleven  o'clock." 

"  Went  in  ?  Went  in  where  ?  "  exclaimed 
Dubois,  turning  first  to  Hyppolite,  and  then  to 
the  foreman,  with  a  look  of  haggard  anxiety. 

"  Into  the  boiler,"  replied  Hyppolite,  taking  his 
uncle's  hand.  "  This  is  a  gelatine  manufactory. 
We  boil  down  tons  of  old  parchment  every  year." 

It  was  long  before  Dubois  recovered  from  the 
shock  he  had  received  ;  but  he  did  finally  recover. 
He  began  to  accumulate  fresh  bibliographical 
treasures  around  him,  and  many  pleasant  evenings 
were  spent  in  those  old  apartments.  But  his 
former  enthusiasm  never  returned.  Any  new 
discovery  in  the  field  of  his  research  no  longer 
excited  a  rapid  flow  of  ardent  words,  but  was 
merely  indicated  by  a  faint  smile.  He  was  al- 
ways kindly  and  genial,  and  was  only  roused  to 
an  occasional  word  or  look  of  bitterness  when 


THE  LOST  BOOKS  OF  LIVY.  321 

some  circumstance  happened  to  remind  him  of 
the  treasure  he  had  lost.  "  To  think  that  what  I 
had  been  hunting  for  all  my  life  should  be  found 
only  to  be  lost  in  a  pot  of  gelatine  !  "  he  would 
exclaim,  indignantly.  Then  he  would  fall  into 
a  silence  which  no  one  ventured  to  disturb.  But, 
with  a  slight  sigh,  and  a  quiver  of  his  gray  locks, 
he  would  soon  dismiss  the  subject  from  his  mind, 
and  change  the  conversation. 

If  he  ever  felt  regret  at  having  expended  all 

the  energies  of  his  life  among  the  dim  shadows 

of  the  past,  no  one  ever  heard  him  express  the 

feeling.     And  this  was  wise  ;  for  his  habits  were 

too  firmly  fixed  to  be  changed.     He  lived  with 

his  dear  old  volumes  as  with  friends.     The  mo- 

notony of  his  life  was  soothed  by  a  daughter's  love, 

and    cheered   by  the   kind    attentions  of  his   gay 

young  nephew.     His  uncommon  talents  and  learn- 

ing  left    no    traces   behind   them,   and    his    name 

passed  away  as  do  the  pleasant  clouds  of  twilight. 

Hyppolite's   constant  love   was  rewarded  by   the 

heart    and    hand    of   Marcelline  ;    and    the    two 

who  most  reverenced    the    old   man's   learn- 

ing,  and  most  tenderly  cherished  the 

memory  of  his  genial  character, 

lived  to  talk  of  them  often  to 

each  other,  and  to  teach 

them  to  their  de- 

scendants. 


14* 


TO  ONE  WHO  WISHED    ME   SIX- 
TEEN  YEARS  OLD. 

BY  ALICE    GARY. 

SUPPOSE  your  hand  with  power  supplied, 
Say,  would  you  slip  it  'neath  my  hair, 
And  turn  it  to  the  golden  side 

Of  sixteen  years  ?     Suppose  you  dare, 

And  I  stood  here  with  smiling  mouth, 
Red  cheeks,  and  hands  all  softly  white, 

Exceeding  beautiful  with  youth, 

And  that  some  tiptoe-treading  sprite 

Brought  dreams  as  bright  as  they  could  be, 
To  keep  the  shadows  from  my  brow, 

And  plucked  down  hearts  to  pleasure  me, 
As  you  would  roses  from  a  bough. 

What  could  I  do  then  ?     Idly  wear, 
While  all  my  mates  went  on  before, 

The  bashful  looks  and  golden  hair 

Of  sixteen  years !  and  nothing  more  ? 


SIXTEEN  YEARS   OLD.  323 

Nay,  done  with  youth  are  my  desires, 

Life  has  no  pain  I  fear  to  meet ; 
Experience,  with  its  dreadful  fires, 

Melts  knowledge  to  a  welding  heat. 

And  all  its  fires  of  heart  and  brain, 

Where  purpose  into  power  was  wrought, 

I  'd  bear,  and  gladly  bear  again, 
Rather  than  be  put  back  a  thought. 

So,  sigh  no  more,  my  gentle  friend, 

That  I  am  at  the  time  of  day 
When  white  hair  comes,  and  heart-beats  send 

No  blushes  through  the  cheeks  astray. 

For  could  you  mould  my  destiny, 

As  clay,  within  your  loving  hand, 
I  'd  leave  my  youth's  sweet  company, 

And  suffer  back  to  where  I  stand. 


THE  SILVERY  HEAD. 

THOUGH  youth  may  boast  the  curls  that  flow, 
In  sunny  waves  of  auburn  glow, 

As  graceful,  on  thy  hoary  head, 
Has  time  the  robe  of  honor  spread, 
And  there,  0,  softly,  softly  shed 
His  wreath  of  snow. 

FELICIA   I!EMANS. 


GROWING     OLD.* 


ADDRESSED    TO    UNMARRIED    WOMEN. 

T  is  a  trying  crisis  in  life  to  feel  that 
you  have  had  your  fair  half  at  least 
of  the  ordinary  term  of  years  allotted 
to  mortals  ;  that  you  have  no  right  to 
expect  to  be  any  handsomer,  or  stronger,  or  hap- 
pier than  you  are  now  ;  that  you  have  climbed 
to  the  summit  of  life,  whence  the  next  step  must 
necessarily  be  decadence.  The  air  may  be  as  fresh, 
the  view  as  grand,  still  you  know  that,  slower  or 
faster,  you  are  going  down  hill.  It  is  not  a  pleas- 
ant descent  at  the  beginning.  It  is  rather  trying 
when,  from  long  habit,  you  unwittingly  speak  of 
yourself  as  a  "  girl,"  to  detect  a  covert  smile  on 
the  face  of  your  interlocutor ;  or,  when  led  by 
some  chance  excitement  to  deport  yourself  in  an 
ultra-youthful  manner,  some  instinct  warns  you 
that  you  are  making  yourself  ridiculous  ;  or,  catch- 
ing in  some  strange  looking-glass  the  face  you  are 

*  From  Miss  Muloch's  "  Thoughts  about  Women." 


GROWING   OLD.  325 

too  familiar  with  to  notice  much,  ordinarily,  you 
suddenly  become  aware  that  it  is  not  a  young 
face,  and  will  never  be  a  young  face  again.  With 
most  people,  the  passing  from  maturity  to  middle 
age  is  so  gradual  as  to  be  almost  imperceptible  to 
the  individual  concerned.  There  is  no  denying 
this  fact,  and  it  ought  to  silence  many  an  ill-na- 
tured remark  upon  those  unlucky  ones  who  insist 
upon  remaining  "young  ladies  of  a  certain  age." 
It  is  very  difficult  for  a  woman  to  recognize  that 
she  is  growing  old  ;  and  to  all,  this  recognition 
cannot  but  be  fraught  with  considerable  pain. 
Even  the  most  sensible  woman  cannot  fairly  put 
aside  her  youth,  with  all  it  has  enjoyed,  or  lost, 
or  missed,  and  regard  it  as  henceforth  to  be  con- 
sidered a  thing  gone  by,  without  a  momentary 
spasm  of  the  heart. 

To  "  grow  old  gracefully  "  is  a  good  and  beau- 
tiful thing ;  to  grow  old  worthily  is  a  better. 
And  the  first  effort  to  that  end  is  to  become  rec- 
onciled to  the  fact  of  youth's  departure  ;  to  have 
faith  in  the  wisdom  of  that  which  we  call  change, 
but  which  is  in  truth  progression  ;  to  follow  openly 
and  fearlessly,  in  ourselves  and  our  daily  life,  the 
same  law  which  makes  spring  pass  into  summer, 
summer  into  autumn,  and  autumn  into  winter, 
preserving  an  especial  beauty  and  fitness  in  each 
of  the  four. 

If  women  could  only  believe  it,  there  is  a  won- 
derful beauty  even  in  growing  old.  The  charm 


326  GROWING   OLD. 

of  expression,  arising  from  softened  temper  or 
ripened  intellect,  often  atones  amply  for  the  loss 
of  form  and  coloring ;  consequently,  to  those  who 
could  never  boast  of  either  of  these  latter,  years 
give  much  more  than  they  take  away.  A  sen- 
sitive person  often  requires  half  a  lifetime  to  get 
thoroughly  used  to  this  corporeal  machine ;  to 
attain  a  wholesome  indifference  both  to  its  defects 
and  perfections  ;  and  to  learn  at  last  what  nobody 
would  acquire  from  any  teacher  but  experience, 
that  it  is  the  mind  alone  which  is  of  any  conse- 
quence. With  good  temper,  sincerity,  and  a  mod- 
erate stock  of  brains,  or  even  with  the  two  former 
only,  any  sort  of  a  body  can  in  time  be  made 
a  useful,  respectable,  and  agreeable  travelling-dress 
for  the  soul.  Many  a  one  who  was  absolutely 
plain  in  youth,  thus  grows  pleasant  and  well- 
looking  in  declining  years.  You  will  seldom  find 
anybody,  not  ugly  in  mind,  who  is  repulsively 
ugly  in  person  after  middle  life. 

So  it  is  with  character.  However  we  may  talk 
about  people  being  "  not  a  whit  altered,"  "just 
the  same  as  ever";  the  fact  is,  not  one  of  us  is, 
or  can  be,  for  long  together,  exactly  the  same. 
The  body  we  carry  with  us  is  not  the  identical 
body  we  were  born  with,  or  the  one  we  supposed 
ours  seven  years  ago  ;  and  our  spiritual  self,  which 
inhabits  it,  also  goes  through  perpetual,  change 
and  renewal.  In  moral  and  mental,  as  well  as 
ill  physical  growth,  it  is  impossible  to  remain 


GROWING  OLD.  327 

stationary.  If  we  do  not  advance,  we  retrograde. 
Talk  of  being  "  too  late  to  improve,"  "  too  old  to 
learn  "  !  A  human  being  should  be  improving 
with  every  day  of  a  lifetime  ;  and  will  probably 
have  to  go  on  learning  throughout  all  the  ages 
of  immortality. 

One  of  the  pleasures  of  growing  old  is,  to  know, 
to  acquire,  to  find  out,  to  be  able  to  appreciate  the 
causes  of  things  ;  this  gradually  becomes  a  neces- 
sity and  an  exquisite  delight.  We  are  able  to 
pass  out  of  our  own  small  daily  sphere,  and  to  take 
interest  in  the  marvellous  government  of  the  uni- 
verse ;  to  see  the  grand  workings  of  cause  and 
effect  ;  the  educing  of  good  out  of  apparent  evil  ; 
the  clearing  away  of  the  knots  in  tangled  destinies, 
general  or  individual ;  the  wonderful  agency  of 
time,  change,  and  progress  in  ourselves,  in  those 
surrounding  us,  and  in  the  world  at  large.  In 
small  minds,  this  feeling  expends  itself  in  med- 
dling, gossiping,  scandal-mongering  ;  but  such  are 
merely  abortive  developments  of  a  right  noble 
quality,  which,  properly  guided,  results  in  benefits 
incalculable  to  the  individual  and  to  society.  Un- 
doubtedly the  after-half  of  life  is  the  best  work- 
ing-time. Beautiful  is  youth's  enthusiasm,  and 
grand  are  its  achievements  ;  but  the  most  solid 
and  permanent  good  is  done  by  the  persistent 
strength  and  wide  experience  of  middle  age.  Con- 
tentment rarely  comes  till  then  ;  not  mere  resig- 
nation, a  passive  acquiescence  in  what  cannot  be 


328  GROWING   OLD. 

removed,  but  active  contentment.  This  is  a  bless- 
ing cheaply  bought  by  a  personal  share  in  that 
daily  account  of  joy  and  pain,  which  the  longer 
one  lives  the  more  one  sees  is  pretty  equally  bal- 
anced in  all  lives.  Young  people  enjoy  "  the  top 
of  life  "  ecstatically,  either  in  prospect  or  fruition  ; 
but  they  are  very  seldom  contented.  It  is  not 
possible.  Not  till  the  cloudy  maze  is  half  travelled 
through,  and  we  begin  to  see  the  object  and  pur- 
pose of  it,  can  we  be  really  content. 

The  doubtful  question,  to  marry  or  not  to  marry, 
is  by  this  time  generally  settled.  A  woman's  re- 
lations with  the  other  sex  imperceptibly  change 
their  character,  or  slowly  decline.  There  are 
exceptions  ;  old  lovers  who  have  become  friends, 
or  friends  whom  no  new  love  could  make  swerve 
from  the  fealty  of  years  ;  still  it  usually  happens 
so.  The  society  of  honorable,  well-informed  gen- 
tlemen, who  meet  a  lady  on  the  easy  neutral 
ground  of  mutual  esteem,  is  undoubtedly  pleasant, 
but  the  time  has  passed  when  any  one  of  them  is 
the  one  necessary  to  her  happiness.  If  she  wishes 
to  retain  influence  over  mankind,  she  must  do  it 
by  means  different  from  those  employed  in  youth. 
Even  then,  be  her  wit  ever  so  sparkling,  her  in- 
fluence ever  so  pure  and  true,  she  will  often  find 
her  listener  preferring  bright  eyes  to  intellectual 
conversation,  and  the  satisfaction  of  his  heart  to 
the  improvement  of  his  mind.  And  who  can 
blame  him  ?  The  only  way  for  a  woman  to  pre- 


GROWING   OLD.  329 

serve  the  unfeigned  respect  of  men,  is  to  let  them 
see  that  she  can  do  without  either  their  attention 
or  their  admiration.  The  waning  coquette,  the 
ancient  beauty,  as  well  as  the  ordinary  woman, 
who  has  had  her  fair  share  of  both  love  and  liking, 
must  show  by  her  demeanor  that  she  has  learned 
this. 

It  is  reckoned  among  the  compensations  of  time 
that  we  suffer  less  as  we  grow  older  ;  that  pain, 
like  joy,  becomes  dulled  by  repetition,  or  by  the 
callousness  that  comes  with  years.  In  one  sense 
this  is  true.  If  there  is  no  joy  like  the  joy  of 
youth,  the  rapture  of  a  first  love,  the  thrill  of  a 
first  ambition,  God's  great  mercy  has  also  granted, 
that  there  is  no  anguish  like  youth's  pain  ;  so.  total, 
so  hopeless,  blotting  out  earth  and  heaven,  falling 
down  upon  the  whole  being  like  a  stone..  This 
never  comes  in  after  life  ;  because  the  sufferer,  if 
he  or  she  have  lived  to  any  purpose  at  all,  has 
learned  that  God  never  meant  any  human  being  to 
be  crushed  under  any  calamity,  like  a  blind,  worm 
under  a  stone. 

For  lesser  evils,  the  fact  that  our  interests  grad- 
ually take  a  wider  range,  allows  more  scope  for 
the  healing  power  of  compensation.  Also  our 
loves,  hates,  sympathies,  and  prejudices,  having 
assumed  a  more  rational  and  softened  shape,  do 
not  present  so  many  angles  for  the  rough  attrition 
of  the  world.  Likewise,  with  the  eye  of  faith  we 
have  come  to  view  life  in  its  entireness,  instead  of 


330  GROWING  OLD. 

puzzling  over  its  disjointed  parts,  which  were  never 
meant  to  be  made  wholly  clear  to  mortal  eye. 
And  that  calm  twilight,  which,  by  nature's  kindly 
law,  so  soon  begins  to  creep  over  the  past,  throws 
over  all  things  a  softened  coloring,  which  tran- 
scends and  forbids  regret. 

Another  reason  why  woman  has  greater  capacity 
for  usefulness  in  middle  life  than  in  any  previous 
portion  of  her  existence,  is  her  greater  indepen- 
dence. She  will  have  learned  to  understand  herself, 
mentally  and  bodily  ;  to  be  mistress  over  herself. 
Nor  is  this  a  small  advantage  ;  for  it  often  takes 
years  to  comprehend,  and  to  act  upon  when 
comprehended,  the  physical  peculiarities  of  one's 
own  constitution.  Much  valetudinarianism  among 
women  arises  from  ignorance  or  neglect  of  the 
commonest  sanitary  laws  ;  and  from  indifference 
to  that  grand  preservative  of  a  healthy  body,  a 
well-controlled  and  healthy  mind.  Both  of  these 
are  more  attainable  in  middle  age  than  in  youth  ; 
and  therefore  the  sort  of  happiness  they  bring,  a 
solid,  useful,  available  happiness,  is  more  in  her 
power  then  than  at  any  earlier  period.  And 
why  ?  Because  she  has  ceased  to  think  principally 
of  herself  and  her  own  pleasures  ;  because  hap- 
piness has  itself  become  to  her  an  accidental  thing, 
which  the  good  God  may  give  or  withhold,  as  He 
sees  most  fit  for  her,  and  most  adapted  to  the  work 
for  which  he  means  to  use  her  in  her  generation. 
This  conviction  of  beine:  at  once  an  active  and  a 


GROWING   OLD.  331 

passive  agent  is  surely  consecration  enough  to 
form  the  peace,  nay,  the  happiness,  of  any  good 
woman's  life  ;  enough,  be  it  ever  so  solitary,  to 
sustain  it  until  the  end.  In  what  manner  such  a 
conviction  should  be  carried  out,  no  one  individual 
can  venture  to  advise.  In  this  age,  woman's  work 
is  almost  unlimited,  wrhen  the  woman  herself  so 
chooses.  She  alone  can  be  a  law  unto  herself; 
deciding  and  acting  according  to  the  circumstances 
in  which  her  lot  is  placed.  And  have  we  not 
many  who  do  so  act  ?  There  are  women  of  prop- 
erty, whose  names  are  a  proverb  for  generous  and 
wide  charities  ;  whose  riches,  carefully  guided, 
flow  into  innumerable  channels,  freshening  the 
whole  land.  There  are  women  of  rank  and  in- 
fluence, who  use  both,  or  lay  aside  both,  in  the 
simplest  humility,  for  labors  of  love,  which  level 
all  classes,  or  rather  raise  them  all,  to  one  common 
sphere  of  womanhood. 

Many  others,  of  whom  the  world  knows  nothing, 
have  taken  the  wisest  course  that  any  unmarried 
woman  can  take  ;  they  have  made  themselves  a 
home  and  a  position  :  some,  as  the  Ladies  Bounti- 
ful of  a  country  neighborhood  ;  some,  as  elder  sis- 
ters, on  whom  has  fallen  the  bringing  up  of  whole 
families,  and  to  whom  has  been  tacitly  accorded 
the  headship  of  the  same,  by  the  love  and  respect 
of  more  than  one  generation  thereof.  There  are 
some  who,  as  writers,  painters,  and  professional 
women  generally,  make  the  most  of  whatever  spe- 


332  GROWING   OLD. 

cial  gift  is  allotted  to  them  ;  believing  that,  whether 
it  be  great  or  small,  it  is  not  theirs,  either  to  lose 
or  to  waste,  but  that  they  must  one  day  render  up 
to  the  Master  his  own,  with  usury. 

I  will  not  deny  that  the  approach  of  old  age 
has  its  sad  aspect  to  a  woman  who  has  never  mar- 
ried ;  and  who,  when  her  own  generation  dies  out, 
nor  longer  retains,  or  can  expect  to  retain,  any 
flesh-and-blood  claim  upon  a  single  human  being. 
When  all  the  downward  ties,  which  give  to  the 
decline  of  life  a  rightful  comfort,  and  the  interest 
in  the  new  generation  which  brightens  it  with  a 
perpetual  hope,  are  to  her  either  unknown,  or  in- 
dulged in  chiefly  on  one  side.  Of  course  there 
are  exceptions,  where  an  aunt  has  been  almost  like 
a  mother,  and  where  a  loving  and  lovable  great- 
aunt  is  as  important  a  personage  as  any  grand- 
mother. But,  generally  speaking,  a  single  woman 
must  make  up  her  mind  that  the  close  of  her  days 
will  be  more  or  less  solitary. 

Yet  there  is  a  solitude  which  old  age  feels  to  be 
as  natural  and  satisfying  as  that  rest  which  seems 
such  an  irksomeness  to  youth,  but  which  gradually 
grows  into  the  best  blessing  of  our  lives  ;  and 
there  is  another  solitude,  so  full  of  peace  and 
hope,  that  it  is  like  Jacob's  sleep  in  the  wilder- 
ness, at  the  foot  of  the  ladder  of  angels. 

The  extreme  loneliness,  which  afar  off  appears 
sad,  may  prove  to  be  but  as  the  quiet,  dreamy 
hour,  "  between  the  lights,"  when  the  day's  work 


GROWING  OLD.  333 

is  done,  and  we  lean  back,  closing  our  eyes,  to 
think  it  all  over  before  we  finally  go  to  rest,  or  to 
look  forward,  with  faith  and  hope,  unto  the  coming 
Morning. 

A  life  in  which  the  best  has  been  made  of  all 
the  materials  granted  to  it,  and  through  which  the 
hand  of  the  Great  Designer  can  be  plainly  traced, 
whether  its  web  be  dark  or  bright,  whether  its  pat- 
tern be  clear  or  clouded,  is  not  a  life  to  be  pitied  ; 
for  it  is  a  completed    life.     It   has    fulfilled 
its    appointed    course,   and  returns    to 
the  Giver  of  all  breath,   pure  as 
he  gave   it.      Nor  will    he 
forget    it    when    he 
counteth  up  his 
jewels. 


"  TIME  wears  slippers  of  list,  and  his  tread  is 
noiseless.  The  days  come  softly  dawning,  one 
after  another  ;  they  creep  in  at  the  windows  ; 
their  fresh  morning  air  is  grateful  to  the  lips  as 
they  pant  for  it ;  their  music  is  sweet  to  the  ears 
that  listen  to  it ;  until,  before  we  know  it,  a  whole 
life  of  days  has  possession  of  the  citadel,  and  time 
has  taken  us  for  its  own." 


EQUINOCTIAL. 


BY   MRS.    A.    D.    T.    WHITNEY. 


THE  Sun  of  Life  has  crossed  the  line ; 
The  summer-shine  of  lengthened  light 
Faded  and  failed,  —  till,  where  I  stand, 
'Tis  equal  Day  and  equal  Night. 

One  after  one,  as  dwindling  hours, 

Youth's  glowing  hopes  have  dropped  away, 

And  soon  may  barely  leave  the  gleam 
That  coldly  scores  a  winter's  day. 

I  am  not  young,  I  am  not  old ; 

The  flush  of  morn,  the  sunset  calm, 
Paling,  and  deepening,  each  to  each. 

Meet  midway  with  a  solemn  charm. 

One  side  I  see  the  summer  fields, 
Not  yet  disrobed  of  all  their  green ; 

While  westerly,  along  the  hills, 

Flame  the  first  tints  of  frosty  sheen. 


EQUINOCTIAL.  335 

Ah,  middle-point,  where  cloud  and  storm 
Make  battle-ground  of  this  my  life  ! 

Where,  even-matched,  the  Night  and  Day 
Wage  round  me  their  September  strife ! 

I  bow  me  to  the  threatening  gale : 

I  know  when  that  is  overpast, 
Among  the  peaceful  harvest-days, 

An  Indian-summer  comes  at  last. 


EPITAPH   ON   THE   UNMATED. 

No  chosen  spot  of  ground  she  called  her  own. 
In  pilgrim  guise  o'er  earth  she  wandered  on  ; 
Yet  always  in  her  path  some  flowers  were  strown. 
No  dear  ones  were  her  own  peculiar  care, 
So  was  her  bounty  free  as  heaven's  air ; 
For  every  claim  she  had  enough  to  spare. 
And,  loving  more  her  heart  to  give  than  lend. 
Though  oft  deceived  in  many  a  trusted  friend, 
She  hoped,  believed,  and  trusted  to  the  end. 
She  had  her  joys  ;  —  't  was  joy  to  her  to  love, 
To  labor  in  the  world  with  God  above, 
And  tender  hearts  that  ever  near  did  move. 
She  had  her  griefs ;  —  but  they  left  peace  behind, 
And  healing  came  on  every  stormy  wind, 
And  still  with  silver  every  cloud  was  lined. 
And  every  loss  sublimed  some  low  desire, 
And  every  sorrow  taught  her  to  aspire, 
Till  waiting  angels  bade  her  "  Go  up  higher." 

E.   S. 


A    BEAUTIFUL   THOUGHT.* 

LESSING  and  blessed,  this  excellent 
man  passed  on  to  old  age ;  and  how 
beautiful  that  old  age  was,  none,  who 
had  the  privilege  of  knowing  it,  can 
ever  forget.  It  was  the  old  age  of  the  Christian 
scholar  and  the  beloved  man.  His  evening  of  life 
could  not  but  be  bright  and  serene,  full  of  hope, 
and  free  from  sadness.  He  had  a  kindly  fresh- 
ness of  spirit,  which  made  the  society  of  the  young 
pleasant  to  him  ;  and  they,  on  their  part,  were 
always  happy  to  be  with  him,  enjoying  the  good- 
natured  wisdom  and  the  modest  richness  of  his 
conversation.  His  faculties  remained  clear,  active, 
and  healthy  to  the  last.  Advancing  years  never 
for  a  moment  closed  the  capacity,  or  abated  the 
willingness,  to  receive  new  ideas.  Though  a  lover 
of  the  past  and  the  established,  his  opinions  never 
hardened  into  prejudices.  His  intellectual  vigor 

*  From  the  Rev.  Dr.  Francis's  Memoir  of  the  Hon.  John 
Davis. 


A  BEAUTIFUL   THOUGHT.  337 

was  not  seen  to  moulder  under  the  quiet  which  an 
old  man  claims  as  his  right.  Of  him  might  be  said 
what  Solon  said  of  himself  in  advanced  years,  that 
"  he  learned  something  every  day  he  lived  "  ;  and 
to  no  one  could  be  better  applied  the  remark  of 
Cicero  concerning  the  venerable  Appius  :  "  He 
kept  his  mind  bent  like  a  bow,  nor  was  it  ever 
relaxed  by  old  age." 

But  it  was  peculiarly  his  fine  moral  qualities  — 
his  benevolence,  his  artlessness,  his  genial  kind- 
ness—  which  shed  a  mellow  and  beautiful  light 
on  his  old  age.  No  thought  of  self  ever  mingled 
its  alloy  with  the  virtues  that  adorned  Judge 
Davis's  character.  His  reliance  on  the  truths  and 
promises  of  Christian  faith  seemed  more  confident 
and  vital  as  he  drew  nearer  to  the  great  realities 
of  the  future.  For  him,  life  had  always  a  holy 
meaning.  A  Grecian  philosopher,  at  the  age  of 
eighty-five,  is  said  to  have  expressed  painful  dis- 
content at  the  shortness  of  life,  and  complained  of 
nature's  hard  allotment,  which  snatches  man  away 
just  as  he  is  about  to  reach  some  perfection  of 
science.  Not  so  our  Christian  sage ;  he  found 
occasion,  not  for  complaint,  but  rather  for  thank- 
fulness, because,  as  the  end  approached,  he  saw 
more  distinctly  revealed  the  better  light  beyond. 

He  once  expressed,  in  a  manner  touchingly 
beautiful,  his  own  estimation  of  old  age.  On  the 
occasion  of  a  dinner-party,  at  which  Judge  Story 
and  others  eminent  in  the  legal  profession  were 

15  T 


338  A   BEAUTIFUL   THOUGHT. 

present,  the  conversation  turned  upon  the  compar- 
ative advantages  of   the   different  periods  of  life. 
Some  preferred,  -for  enjoyment,  youth  and   man- 
hood ;    others  ascribed  more  solid  satisfactions  to 
old  age.     When  the  opinion  of  Judge  Davis  was 
asked,  he  said,  with  his  usual  calm  simplicity  of 
manner  :  "•  In  the  warm  season  of  the  year  it  is 
my  delight  to  be  in  the  country  ;   and  every  pleas- 
ant evening  while   I   am   there,  I   love   to   sit   at 
the    window    and    look    at    some    beautiful    trees 
which    grow  near    my  house.       The    murmuring 
of   the  wind    through    the    branches,    the    gentle 
play  of   the    leaves,    and    the    flickering    of  light 
upon  them  when  the  moon  is  up,  fill  me  with  an 
indescribable    pleasure.       As    the    autumn    comes 
on,  I  feel  very  sad  to  see  these  leaves  falling  one 
by  one ;  but  when  they  are  all  gone,  I  find 
that  they  were  only  a  screen  before  my 
eyes  ;    for    I    experience    a    new 
and    higher    satisfaction    as    I 
gaze   through   the  naked 
branches  at  the  glo- 
rious   stars    of 
heaven  be- 
yond." 
0) 


AT    ANCHOR.* 


AH,  many  a  year  ago,  dear  wife, 
We  floated  down  this  river, 
Where  the  hoar  willows  on  its  brink 

Alternate  wave  and  shiver  ; 
With  careless  glance  we  viewed  askance 

The  kingfisher  at  quest, 
And  scarce  would  heed  the  reed-wren  near, 

Who  sang  beside  her  nest ; 
Nor  dreamed  that  e'er  our  boat  would  be 
Thus  anchored  and  at  rest, 

Dear  love, 
Thus  anchored,  and  at  rest ! 

O,  many  a  time  the  wren  has  built 

Where  those  green  shadows  quiver, 
And  many  a  time  the  hawthorn  shed 

Its  blossoms  on  the  river, 
Since  that  sweet  noon  of  sultry  June, 

When  I  my  love  confessed, 
While  with  the  tide  our  boat  did  glide 

Adown  the  stream's  smooth  breast, 

*  Author  unknown. 


340  AT  ANCHOR. 

Whereon  our  little  shallop  lies 
Now  anchored,  and  at  rest, 

Dear  love, 
Now  anchored,  and  at  rest ! 

The  waters  still  to  ocean  run, 

Their  tribute  to  deliver, 
And  still  the  hawthorns  bud  and  bloom 

Above  the  dusky  river. 
Still  sings  the  wren,  —  the  water-hen 

Still  skims  the  ripple's  crest ; 
The  sun  —  as  bright  as  on  that  night  — 

Sinks  slowly  down  the  west ; 
But  now  our  tiny  craft  is  moored, 

Safe  anchored  and  at  rest, 
Dear  love, 

Safe  anchored,  and  at  rest ! 

For  this  sweet  calm  of  after-days 

We  thank  the  bounteous  Giver, 
Who  bids  our  life  flow  smoothly  on 

As  this  delicious  river. 
A  world  —  our  own  —  has  round  us  grown, 

Wherein  we  twain  are  blest ; 
Our  child's  first  words  than  songs  of  birds 

More  music  have  expressed  ; 
And  all  our  centred  happiness 

Is  anchored,  and  at  rest, 
Dear  love, 

Is  anchored,  and  at  rest  1 


NOVEMBER. 


BY    REV.   HENRY   WARD   BEECHER. 


often    hear   people    say,    "  O,    the 
dreary  days  of  November  !  "      The 
days  of  November  are  never  dreary, 
though   men  sometimes   are.     There 
are  things  in  November  that  make  us  sad.     There 

O 

are  suggestions  in  it  that  lead  us  to  serious 
thoughts.  At  that  season  of  the  year,  we  are  apt 
to  feel  that  life  is  passing  away.  After  the  days  in 
summer  begin  to  grow  short,  I  cannot  help  sighing 
often  ;  and,  as  they  still  grow  shorter  and  shorter, 
I  look  upon  things,  not  with  pain,  but  with  a 
melancholy  eye.  And  when  autumn  comes,  and 
the  leaves  of  the  trees  drop  down  through  the  air 
and  find  their  resting-places,  I  cannot  help  think- 
ing, that  life  is  short,  that  our  work  is  almost  ended. 
It  makes  me  sad ;  but  there  is  a  sadness  that  is 
wholesome,  and  even  pleasurable.  There  are  sor- 
rows that  are  not  painful,  but  are  of  the  nature  of 
some  acids,  and  give  piquancy  and  flavor  to  life. 


342  NOVEMBER. 

Such  is  the  sorrow  which  November  brings.  That 
month,  which  sees  the  year  disrobed,  is  not  a 
dreary  month.  I  like  to  see  the  trees  go  to  bed, 
as  much  as  I  like  to  see  little  children  go  to  their 
sleep  ;  and  I  think  there  is  nothing  prettier  in  this 
world  than  to  see  a  mother  disrobe  her  child  and 
prepare  its  couch,  and  sing  and  talk  to  it,  and 
finally  lay  it  to  rest.  I  like  to  see  the  birds  get 
ready  for  their  repose  at  night.  Did  you  ever  sit 
at  twilight  and  hear  the  birds  talk  of  their  domestic 
matters,  —  apparently  going  over  with  each  other 
the  troubles  and  joys  of  the  day  ?  There  is  an 
immense  deal  to  be  learned  from  birds,  if  a  person 
lias  an  ear  to  hear.  Even  so  I  like  to  see  the  year 
prepare  for  its  sleep.  I  like  to  see  the  trees  with 
their  clothes  taken  off.  I  like  to  see  the  lines  of  a 
tree ;  to  see  its  anatomy.  I  like  to  see  the  prep- 
aration God  makes  for  winter.  How  everything 
is  snugged  and  packed  !  How  all  nature  gets 
ready  for  the  cold  season  !  How  the  leaves  heap 
themselves  upon  the  roots  to  protect  them  from 
the  frosts  !  How  all  things  tender  are  taken 
out  of  the  way,  and  only  things  tough  are  left  to 
stand  the  buffetings  of  winter  !  And  how  do 
hardy  vines  and  roots  bravely  sport  their  bannered 
leaves,  which  the  frost  cannot  kill,  holding  them 
up  clear  into  the  coldest  days  !  November  is  a 
dreary  month  to  some,  but  to  me  it  is  only  sad  ; 
and  it  is  a  sweet  sadness  that  it  brings  to  my 
mind. 


MEDITATIONS  ON  A  BIRTHDAY 
EVE. 

BY   REV.   JOHN   PIERPONT. 

DAY,  with  its  labors,  has  withdrawn. 
The  stars  look  down  from  heaven, 
And  whisper,  "  Of  thy  life  are  gone 
Full  seventy  years  and  seven  !  " 

"While  those  bright  worlds,  by  angels  trod, 

Thus  whispering  round  me  roll, 
Let  me  commune  with  thee,  my  God  ! 

Commune  with  thee,  my  soul ! 

Thou,  Father,  canst  not  change  thy  place, 

Nor  change  thy  time  to  be. 
What  are  the  boundless  fields  of  space, 

Or  what  are  years  to  Thee  ? 

But  unto  me,  revolving  years 

Bring  change,  bring  feebler  breath  ; 

Bring  age,  —  and,  though  they  bring  no  fears, 
Bring  slower  steps,  pain,  death. 


344     MEDITATIONS  ON  A  BIRTHDAY  EVE. 

This  earthly  house  thy  wisdom  plann'd, 

And  leased  me  for  a  term, 
The  house  I  live  in,  seems  to  stand 

On  its  foundation  firm. 

I  hardly  see  that  it  is  old  ; 

But  younger  eyes  find  proof 
Of  its  long  standing,  who  behold 

The  gray  moss  on  its  roof. 

Spirit !  thou  knowest  this  house,  erelong, 

To  kindred  dust  must  fall. 
Hast  thou,  while  in  it,  grown  more  strong, 

More  ready  for  the  call 

To  meet  thy  Judge,  amid  "  the  cloud 

Of  witnesses,"  who  've  run 
Their  heavenward  race,  and  joined  the  crowd, 

Who  wreaths  and  crowns  have  won  ? 

Hast  thou,  in  search  of  Truth,  been  true  ? 

True  to  thyself  and  her  ? 
And  been,  with  many  or  with  few, 

Her  honest  worshipper  ? 

E'en  truths,  wherein  the  Past  hath  stood, 

Wouldst  thou  inherit  blind  ? 
They  're  good  ;  but  there  's  a  better  good,  — 

The  power  more  truths  to  find. 

And  hast  thou  occupied  that  power, 

And  made  one  talent  five  ? 
If  so,  then  peaceful  be  this  hour  ! 

Thou  'st  saved  thy  soul  alive. 


MEDITA  TIONS  ON  A  BIR  THDA  Y  E  VE.     345 

Hast  thou  e'er  given  the  world  a  page, 

A  line  that  thou  wouldst  blot, 
As  adverse  to  an  upward  age  ? 

God  knoweth  thou  hast  not ! 

Giver  of  life  and  all  my  powers, 

To  thee  rny  soul  I  lift ! 
And  in  these  lone  and  thoughtful  hours, 

I  thank  thee  for  the  gift. 

Day,  with  its  toil  and  care  withdrawn, 

Night's  shadows  o'er  me  thrown, 
Another  of  my  years  is  gone, 

And  here  I  sit  alone. 

No,  not  alone  !  for  with  me  sit 

My  judges,  —  God  and  I ; 
And  the  large  record  we  have  writ, 

Is  lying  open  by. 

And  as  I  hope,  erelong,  to  swell 

The  song  of  seraphim, 
And  as  that  song  the  truth  will  tell, 

My  judgment  is  with  Him. 

Spirit !  thy  race  is  nearly  run. 

Say,  hast  thou  run  it  well  ? 
Thy  work  on  earth  is  almost  done ; 

How  done,  no  man  can  tell. 

Spirit,  toil  on !  thy  house,  that  stands 

Seventy  years  old  and  seven, 
"Will  fall ;  but  one,  "  not  made  with  hands," 

Awaiteth  thee  in  heaven. 
15* 


THE   GRANDMOTHER   OF   SLAVES. 
BY   HER    GRANDDAUGHTER. 

::£•  HAD  a  great  treasure  in  my  maternal 
grandmother,  who  was  a  remarkable 
woman  in  many  respects.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  a  planter  in  South  Car- 
olina, who,  at  his  death,  left  her  and  her  mother 
free,  with  money  to  go  to  St.  Augustine,  where 
they  had  relatives.  It  was  during  the  Revolution- 
ary War,  and  they  were  captured  on  their  passage, 
carried  back,  and  sold  to  different  purchasers. 
Such  was  the  story  my  grandmother  used  to  tell 
me.  She  was  sold  to  the  keeper  of  a  large  hotel, 
and  I  have  often  heard  her  tell  how  hard  she  fared 
during  childhood.  But  as  she  grew  older,  she 

O  O  ' 

evinced  so  much  intelligence,  and  was  so  faithful, 
that  her  master  and  mistress  could  not  help  seeing 
it  was  for  their  interest  to  take  care  of  such  a 
valuable  piece  of  property.  She  became  an  indis- 
pensable person  in  the  household,  officiating  in  all 
capacities,  from  cook  and  wet-nurse  to  seamstress. 


THE   GRANDMOTHER   OF  SLAVES.      347 

She  was  much  praised  for  her  cooking  ;  and  her 
nice  crackers  became  so  famous  in  the  neighbor- 
hood that  many  people  were  desirous  of  obtaining 
them.  In  consequence  of  numerous  requests  of 
this  kind,  she  asked  permission  of  her  mistress  to 
bake  crackers  at  night,  after  all  the  household 
work  was  done  ;  and  she  obtained  leave  to  do  it, 
provided  she  would  clothe  herself  and  the  children 
from  the  profits.  Upon  these  terms,  after  working 
hard  all  day  for  her  mistress,  she  began  her  mid- 
night bakings,  assisted  by  her  two  oldest  children. 
The  business  proved  profitable  ;  and  each  year  she 
laid  by  a  little,  to  create  a  fund  for  the  purchase 
of  her  children.  Her  master  died,  and  his  prop- 
erty was  divided  among  the  heirs.  My  grand- 
mother remained  in  the  service  of  his  widow,  as 
a  slave.  Her  children  were  divided  amonjj  her 

O 

master's  children  ;  but,  as  she  had  five,  Benjamin, 
the  youngest,  was  sold,  in  order  that  the  heirs 
might  have  an  equal  portion  of  dollars  and  cents. 
There  was  so  little  difference  in  our  ages,  that  he 
always  seemed  to  me  more  like  a  brother  than  an 
uncle.  He  was  a  bright,  handsome  lad,  nearly 
white  ;  for  he  inherited  the  complexion  my  grand- 
mother had  derived  from  Anglo-Saxon  ancestors. 
His  sale  was  a  terrible  blow  to  his  mother  ;  but 
she  was  naturally  hopeful,  and  she  went  to  work 
with  redoubled  energy,  trusting  in  time  to  be  able 
to  purchase  her  children.  One  day,  her  mistress 
beirced  the  loan  of  three  hundred  dollars  from  the 


348      THE   GRANDMOTHER   OF  SLAVES. 

little  fund  she  had  laid  up  from  the  proceeds  of 
her  baking.  She  promised  to  pay  her  soon  ;  but 
as  no  promise,  or  writing,  given  to  a  slave  is  legally 
binding,  she  was  obliged  to  trust  solely  to  her 
honor. 

In  my  master's  house  very  little  attention  was 
paid  to  the  slaves'  meals.  If  they  could  catch  a 
bit  of  food  while  it  was  going,  well  and  good. 
But  I  gave  myself  no  trouble  on  that  score  ;  for 
on  my  various  errands  I  passed  my  grandmother's 
house,  and  she  always  had  something  to  spare  for 
me.  I  was  frequently  threatened  with  punishment 
if  I  stopped  there  ;  and  my  grandmother,  to  avoid 
detaining  me,  often  stood  at  the  gate  with  some- 
thing for  my  breakfast  or  dinner.  I  was  indebted 
to  her  for  all  my  comforts,  spiritual  or  temporal. 
It  was  her  labor  that  supplied  my  scanty  ward- 
robe. I  have  a  vivid  recollection  of  the  linsey- 
woolsey  dress  given  me  every  winter  by  Mrs. 
Flint.  How  I  hated  it !  It  was  one  of  the  badges 
of  slavery.  While  my  grandmother  was  thus 
helping  to  support  me  from  her  hard  earnings,  the 
three  hundred  dollars  she  lent  her  mistress  was 
never  repaid.  When  her  mistress  died,  my  master, 
who  was  her  son-in-law,  was  appointed  executor. 
When  grandmother  applied  to  him  for  payment, 
he  said  the  estate  was  insolvent,  and  the  law  pro- 
hibited payment.  It  did  not,  however,  prohibit 
him  from  retaining  the  silver  candelabra,  which 
had  been  purchased  with  that  money.  I  presume 


THE   GRANDMOTHER   OF  SLAVES.      349 

they  will  be  handed  down  in  the  family,  from 
generation  to  generation. 

My  grandmother's  mistress  had  always  promised 
that,  at  her  death,  she  should  be  free  ;  and  it  was 
said  that  in  her  will  she  made  good  the  promise. 
But  when  the  estate  was  settled,  Dr.  Flint  told 
the  faithful  old  servant  that,  under  existing  cir- 
cumstances, it  was  necessary  she  should  be  sold. 

On  the  appointed  day,  the  customary  advertise- 
ment was  posted  up,  proclaiming  that  there  would 
be  "  a  public  sale  of  negroes,  horses,  &c."  Dr. 
Flint  called  to  tell  my  grandmother  that  he  was 
unwilling  to  wound  her  feelings  by  putting  her  up 
at  auction,  and  that  he  would  prefer  to  dispose  of 
her  at  private  sale.  She  saw  through  his  hypocrisy, 
and  understood  very  well  that  he  was  ashamed  of 
the  job.  She  was  a  very  spirited  woman,  and  if  he 
was  base  enough  to  sell  her,  after  her  mistress  had 

~  ' 

made  her  free  by  her  will,  she  was  determined 
the  public  should  know  it.  She  had,  for  a  long 
time,  supplied  many  families  with  crackers  and 
preserves  ;  consequently  "  Aunt  Marthy,"  as  she 
was  called,  was  generally  known  ;  and  all  who 
knew  her  respected  her  intelligence  and  good 
character.  It  was  also  well  known  that  her  mis- 
tress had  intended  to  leave  her  free,  as  a  reward 
for  her  lono;  and  faithful  services.  When  the  dav 

~  •/ 

of  sale  came,  she  took  her  place  among  the  chat- 
tels, and  at  the  first  call  she  sprang  upon  the  auc- 
tion-block. She  was  then  fifty  years  old.  Many 


350      THE   GRANDMOTHER   OF  SLAVES. 

voices  called  out,  "  Shame  !  Shame  !    Who 's  going 

C_>  ~ 

to  sell  you,  Aunt  Marthy  ?  Don't  stand  there  ! 
That 's  no  place  for  you  !  "  She  made  no  answer, 
but  quietly  awaited  her  fate.  No  one  bid  for  her. 
At  last,  a  feeble  voice  said,  "  Fifty  dollars."  It 
came  from  a  maiden  ladv,  seventy  years  old,  the 
sister  of  my  grandmother's  deceased  mistress.  She 
had  lived  forty  years  under  the  same  roof  with  my 
grandmother ;  she  knew  how  faithfully  she  had 
served  her  owners,  and  how  cruelly  she  had  been 
defrauded  of  her  rights,  and  she  resolved  to  pro- 
tect her.  The  auctioneer  waited  for  a  higher  bid  ; 
but  her  wishes  were  respected  ;  no  one  bid  above 
her.  The  old  lady  could  neither  read  nor  write  : 
and  when  the  bill  of  sale  was  made  out,  she  signed 
it  with  a  cross.  But  of  what  consequence  was  that, 
when  she  had  a  big  heart  overflowing  with  human 
kindness  ?  She  gave  the  faithful  old  servant  her 
freedom. 

My  grandmother  had  always  been  a  mother  to 
her  orphan  grandchildren,  as  far  as  that  was  possi- 
ble in  a  condition  of  slavery.  Her  perseverance 
and  unwearied  industry  continued  unabated  after 
her  time  was  her  own,  and  she  soon  became  mis- 
tress of  a  snug  little  home,  and  surrounded  herself 
with  the  necessaries  of  life.  She  would  have  been 
happy,  if  her  family  could  have  shared  them  with 
her.  There  remained  to  her  but  three  children  and 
two  grandchildren  ;  and  they  were  all  slaves.  Most 
earnestlv  did  she  strive  to  make  us  feel  that  it  was 


THE   GRANDMOTHER   OF  SLAVES.     351 

the  will  of  God ;  that  He  had  seen  fit  to  place  us 
under  such  circumstances  ;  and,  though  it  seemed 
hard,  we  ought  to  pray  for  contentment.  It  was 
a  beautiful  faith,  coming  from  a  mother  who  could 
not  call  her  children  her  own.  But  I,  and  Benja- 
min, her  youngest  boy,  condemned  it.  It  appeared 
to  us  that  it  was  much  more  according  to  the  will 
of  God  that  we  should  be  free,  and  able  to  make  a 
home  for  ourselves,  as  she  had  done.  There  we 
always  found  balsam  for  our  troubles.  She  was  so 
loving,  so  sympathizing !  She  always  met  us  with 
a  smile,  and  listened  with  patience  to  all  our  sor- 
rows. She  spoke  so  hopefully,  that  unconsciously 
the  clouds  gave  place  to  sunshine.  There  was  a 
grand  big  oven  there,  too,  that  baked  bread  and 
nice  things  for  the  town  ;  and  we  knew  there  was 
always  a  choice  bit  in  store  for  us.  But  even  the 
charms  of  that  old  oven  failed  to  reconcile  us  to 
our  hard  lot.  Benjamin  was  now  a  tall,  handsome 
lad,  strongly  and  gracefully  made,  and  with  a  spirit 
too  bold  and  daring  for  a  slave. 

O 

One  day,  his  master  attempted  to  flog  him  for 
not  obeying  his  summons  quickly  enough.  Benja- 
min resisted,  and  in  the  struggle  threw  his  master 
down.  To  raise  his  hand  against  a  white  man  was 
a  great  crime  according  to  the  laws  of  the  State, 
and  to  avoid  a  cruel  public  whipping,  Benjamin 
hid  himself  and  made  his  escape.  My  grand- 
mother was  absent  visiting  an  old  friend  in  the 

~ 

country,  when  this  happened.    When  she  returned, 


352      THE   GRANDMOTHER   OF  SLAVES. 

and  found  her  youngest  child  had  fled,  great  was 
her  sorrow.  But,  with  characteristic  piety,  she 
said,  "  God's  will  be  done."  Every  morning  she 
inquired  whether  any  news  had  been  heard  from 
her  boy.  Alas,  news  did  come  ;  sad  news.  The 
master  received  a  letter,  and  was  rejoicing  over  the 
capture  of  his  human  chattel. 

That  day  seems  to  me  but  as  yesterday,  so  well 
do  I  remember  it.  I  saw  him  led  through  the 

O 

streets  in  chains  to  jail.  His  face  was  ghastly 
pale,  but  full  of  determination.  He  had  sent  some 
one  to  his  mother's  house,  to  ask  her  not  to  come 
to  meet  him.  He  said  the  sight  of  her  distress 
would  take  from  him  all  self-control.  Her  heart 
yearned  to  see  him,  and  she  went ;  but  she 
screened  herself  in  the  crowd,  that  it  might  be 
as  her  child  had  said. 

We  were  not  allowed  to  visit  him.  But  we 
had  known  the  jailer  for  years,  and  he  was  a  kind- 
hearted  man.  At  midnight  he  opened  the  door 
for  my  grandmother  and  myself  to  enter,  in  dis- 
guise. When  we  entered  the  cell,  not  a  sound 
broke  the  stillness.  "  Benjamin,"  whispered  my 
grandmother.  No  answer.  "  Benjamin  !  "  said 
she,  again,  in  a  faltering  tone.  There  was  a  jin- 
gling of  chains.  The  moon  had  just  risen,  and  cast 
an  uncertain  light  through  the  bars.  We  knelt 
down  and  took  Benjamin's  cold  hands  in  ours. 
Sobs  alone  were  heard,  while  she  wept  upon  his 
neck.  At  last  Benjamin's  lips  were  unsealed. 


THE   GRANDMOTHER   OF  SLAVES.      353 

Mother  and  son  talked  together.  He  asked  her 
pardon  for  the  suffering  he  had  caused  her.  She 
told  him  she  had  nothing  to  forgive ;  that  she 
could  not  blame  him  for  wanting  to  be  free.  He 
told  her  that  be  broke  away  from  his  captors,  and 
•was  about  to  throw  himself  into  the  river,  but 
thoughts  of  her  came  over  him  and  arrested  the 

O 

movement.  She  asked  him  if  he  did  not  also 
think  of  God.  He  replied,  "•  Xo,  mother,  I  did 
not.  When  a  man  is  hunted  like  a  wild  beast, 
he  forgets  that  there  is  a  God." 

The  pious  mother  shuddered,  as  she  said, 
"  Don't  talk  so,  Benjamin.  Try  to  be  humble, 
and  put  your  trust  in  God." 

"  I  wish  I  had  some  of  your  goodness,"  he  re- 
plied. "  You  bear  everything  patiently,  just  as 
though  you  thought  it  was  all  right.  I  wish  I 
could.'' 

She  told  him  it  had  not  always  been  so  witli 
her  ;  that  once  she  was  like  him  ;  but  when  sore 
troubles  came  upon  her,  and  she  had  no  arm  to 
lean  upon,  she  learned  to  call  on  God,  and  he 
lightened  her  burdens.  She  besought  him  to  do 
so  likewise. 

The  jailer  came  to  tell  us  we  had  overstayed  our 
time,  and  we  were  obliged  to  hurry  away.  Grand- 
mother went  to  the  master  and  tried  to  intercede 
for  her  son.  But  he  was  inexorable.  He  said 
Benjamin  should  be  made  an  example  of.  That 
he  should  be  kept  in  jail  till  he  was  sold.  For 

w 


354      THE   GRANDMOTHER    OF  SLAVES. 

three  months  he  remained  within  the  walls  of  the 
prison,  during  which  time  grandmother  secretly 
conveyed  him  changes  of  clothes,  and  as  often  as 
possible  carried  him  something  warm  for  supper, 
accompanied  with  some  little  luxury  for  her  friend 
the  jailer.  He  was  finally  sold  to  a  slave-trader 
from  New  Orleans.  When  they  fastened  irons 
upon  his  wrists  to  drive  him  off"  with  the  coffle, 
it  was  heart-rending  to  hear  the  groans  of  that 
poor  mother,  as  she  clung  to  the  Benjamin  of  her 
family,  —  her  youngest,  her  pet.  He  was  pale 
and  thin  now  from  hardships  and  long  confine- 
ment, but  still  his  good  looks  were  so  observable, 
that  the  slave-trader  remarked  he  would  give  any 
price  for  the  handsome  lad,  if  he  were  a  girl. 
We,  who  knew  so  well  what  slavery  was,  were" 
thankful  that  he  was  not. 

Grandmother  stifled  her  grief,  and  with  strong 
arms  and  unwavering  faith  set  to  work  to  pur- 
chase freedom  for  Benjamin.  She  knew  the  slave- 
trader  would  charge  three  times  as  much  as  he 
gave  for  him  ;  but  she  was  not  discouraged.  She 
employed  a  lawyer  to  write  to  New  Orleans,  and 
try  to  negotiate  the  business  for  her.  But  word 
came  that  Benjamin  was  missing  ;  he  had  run  away 
again. 

Philip,  my  grandmother's  only  remaining  son, 
inherited  his  mother's  intelligence.  His  mistress 
sometimes  trusted  him  to  go  with  a  cargo  to 
New  York.  One  of  these  occasions  occurred  not 


THE.  GRANDMOTHER   OF  SLAVES.     355 

long  after  Benjamin's  second  escape.  Through 
God's  good  providence  the  brothers  met  in  the 
streets  of  New  York.  It  was  a  happy  meeting, 
though  Benjamin  was  very  pale  and  thin  ;  for,  on 
his  way  from  bondage,  he  had  been  taken  violently 
ill,  and  brought  nigh  unto  death.  Eagerly  he 
embraced  his  brother,  exclaiming,  "  O  Phil !  here 
I  am  at  last !  I  came  nigh  dying  when  I  was 
almost  in  sight  of  freedom  ;  and  O  how  I  prayed 
that  I  might  live  just  to  get  one  breath  of  free 
air  1  And  here  I  am.  In  the  old  jail  I  used  to 
wish  I  was  dead.  But  life  is  worth  something 
now,  and  it  would  be  hard  to  die."  He  begged 
his  brother  not  to  go  back  to  the  South,  but  to 
stay  and  work  with  him  till  they  earned  enough 
to  buy  their  relatives. 

Philip  replied  :  "  It  would  kill  mother  if  I  de- 
serted her.  She  has  pledged  her  house,  and  is 

1  ~ 

working  harder  than  ever  to  buy  you.  Will  you 
be  bought  ?  " 

"  Never  !  ''  replied  Benjamin,  in  his  resolute 
tone.  u  When  I  have  got  so  far  out  of  their 
clutches,  do  you  suppose,  Phil,  that  I  would 
ever  let  them  be  paid  one  red  cent  ?  Do  you 
think  I  would  consent  to  have  mother  turned  out 
of  her  hard-earned  home  in  her  old  age  ?  And 
she  never  to  see  me  after  she  had  bought  me  ? 
For  you  know,  Phil,  she  would  never  leave  the 
South  while  any  of  her  children  or  grandchildren 
remained  in  slavery.  What  a  good  mother  !  Tell 


356      THE   GRANDMOTHER   OF  SLAVES. 

her  to  buy  you,  Phil.  You  have  always  been  a 
comfort  to  her ;  and  I  have  always  been  making 
her  trouble." 

Philip  furnished  his  brother  with  some  clothes, 
and  gave  him  what  money  he  had.  Benjamin 
pressed  his  hand,  and  said,  with  moistened  eyes, 
"  I  part  from  all  my  kindred."  And  so  it  proved. 
We  never  heard  from  him  afterwards. 

When  Uncle  Philip  came  home,  the  first  words 
he  said,  on  entering  the  house,  were  :  "•  O, 
mother,  Ben  is  free  !  I  have  seen  him  in  New 
York."  For  a  moment,  she  seemed  bewildered. 
He  laid  his  hand  gently  on  her  shoulder,  and  re- 
peated what  he  had  said.  She  raised  her  hands 
devoutly,  and  exclaimed,  "  God  be  praised  !  L/L-t 
us  thank  Him."  She  dropped  on  her  knees,  and 
poured  forth  her  heart  in  prayer.  When  she 
grew  calmer,  she  begged  Philip  to  sit  down  and 
repeat  every  word  her  son  had  said.  He  told  her 
all,  except  that  Benjamin  had  nearly  died  on  the 
way,  and  was  looking  very  pale  and  thin. 

Still  the  brave  old  woman  toiled  on  to  accom- 
plish the  rescue  of  her  remaining  children.  After 
a  while,  she  succeeded  in  buying  Philip,  for  whom 
she  paid  eight  hundred  dollars,  and  came  home 
with  the  precious  document  that  secured  his  free- 
dom. The  happy  mother  and  son  sat  by  her 
hearth-stone  that  night,  telling  how  proud  they 
were  of  each  other,  and  how  they  would  prove  to 
the  world  that  they  could  take  care  of  themselves, 


THE   GRANDMOTHER   OF  SLAVES.      357 

as  they  had  long  taken  care  of  others.  We  all 
concluded  by  saying,  "  He  that  is  willing  to  be  a 
slave,  let  him  be  a  slave." 

My  grandmother  had  still  one  daughter  remain- 
ing in  slavery.  Slie  belonged  to  the  same  master 
that  1  did  ;  and  a  hard  time  she  had  of  it.  She 
was  a  good  soul,  this  old  Aunt  Nancy.  She  did 
all  she  could  to  supply  the  place  of  my  lost  mother 
to  us  orphans.  She  was  the  factotum  in  our 
master's  household.  She  was  housekeeper,  wait- 
ing-maid, and  everything  else  ;  nothing  went  on 
well  without  her,  by  day  or  by  night.  She  wore 
herself  out  in  their  service.  Grandmother  toiled 
on,  hoping  to  purchase  release  for  her.  But  one 
evening  word  was  brought  that  she  had  been  sud- 
denly attacked  with  paralysis,  and  grandmother 
hastened  to  her  bedside.  Mother  and  daughter  had 
always  been  devotedly  attached  to  each  other;  and 
now  they  looked  lovingly  and  earnestlv  into  each 
other's  eyes,  longing  to  speak  of  secrets  that  weighed 
on  the  hearts  of  both.  She  lived  but  two  days,  and 
on  the  Isfet  day  she  was  speechless.  It  was  sad  to 
witness  the  grief  of  her  bereaved  mother.  She 
hud  always  been  strong  to  bear,  and  religious 
faith  still  supported  her  ;  but  her  dark  life  had 
become  still  darker,  and  age  and  trouble  were 
leaving  deep  traces  on  her  withered  face.  The 
poor  old  back  was  fitted  to  its  burden.  It  bent 
under  it,  but  did  not  break. 

Uncle    Philip    asked    permission    to    bury    his 


358      THE   GRANDMOTHER   OF  SLAVES. 

sister  at  his  own  expense;  and  slaveholders  are 
always  ready  to  grant  such  favors  to  slaves  and 
their  relatives.  The  arrangements  were  very 
plain,  hut  perfectly  respectable.  It  was  talked  of 
hy  the  slaves  as  a  mighty  grand  funeral.  If 
Northern  travellers  had  been  passing  through  the 
place,  perhaps  they  would  have  described  it  as  a 
beautiful  tribute  to  the  humble  dead,  a  touching 
proof  of  the  attachment  between  slaveholders  and 
their  slaves  ;  and  very  likely  the  mistress  would 
have  confirmed  this  impression,  with  her  handker- 
chief at  her  eyes.  We  could  have  told  them  how 
the  poor  old  mother  had  toiled,  year  after  year,  to 
buy  her  son  Philip's  right  to  his  own  earnings  ; 
and  how  that  same  Philip  had  paid  the  expenses 
of  the  funeral,  which  they  regarded  as  doing  so 
much  credit  to  the  master. 

There    were    some    redeeming   features   in   our 

O 

hard  destiny.  Very  pleasant  are  my  recollections 
of  the  good  old  lady  who  paid  fifty  dollars  for  the 
purpose  of  making  my  grandmother  free,  when 
she  stood  on  the  auction-block.  She  loved  this 
old  lady,  whom  we  all  called  Miss  Fanny.  She 
often  took  tea  at  grandmother's  house.  On  such 
occasions,  the  table  was  spread  with  a  snow-white 
cloth,  and  the  china  cups  and  silver  spoons  were 
taken  from  the  old-fashioned  buffet.  There  were 
hot  muffins,  tea-rusks,  and  delicious  sweetmeats. 
My  grandmother  always  had  a  supply  of  such  arti- 
cles, because  she  furnished  the  ladies  of  the  town 


THE   GRANDMOTHER   OF  SLAVES.      359 

with  such  things  for  their  parties.  She  kept  two 
cows  for  that  purpose,  and  the  fresh  cream  was 
Miss  Fanny's  delight.  She  invariably  repeated 
that  it  was  the  very  best  in  town.  The  old  ladies 
had  cosey  times  together.  They  would  work  and 
chat,  and  sometimes,  while  talking  over  old  times, 
their  spectacles  would  get  dim  with  tears,  and 
would  have  to  be  taken  off  and  wiped.  When 
Miss  Fanny  bade  us  "  Good  by,"  her  bag  was 
always  filled  with  grandmother's  best  cakes,  and 
she  was  urged  to  come  again  soon. 

[Here  follows  a  long  account  of  persecutions 
endured  by  the  granddaughter,  who  tells  this 
story.  She  finally  made  her  escape,  after  encoun- 
tering great  dangers  and  hardships.  The  faithful 
old  grandmother  concealed  her  for  a  long  time  at 
great  risk  to  them  both,  during  which  time  she 
tried  in  vain  to  buy  free  papers  for  her.  At  last 
there  came  a  chance  to  escape  in  a  vessel  North- 
wrard  bound.  She  goes  on  to  say  :  — ] 

All  arrangements  were  made  for  me  to  go  on 
board  at  dusk.  Grandmother  came  to  me  with  a 
small  bag  of  money,  which  she  wanted  me  to  take. 
I  begged  her  to  keep  at  least  part  of  it ;  but  she 
insisted,  while  her  tears  fell  fast,  that  I  should  take 
the  whole.  "  You  may  be  sick  among  strangers," 
said  she  ;  "  and  they  would  send  you  to  the 
poor-house  to  die."  Ah,  that  good  grandmother  ! 
Though  I  had  the  blessed  prospect  of  freedom 
before  me,  1  felt  dreadfully  sad  at  leaving  forever 


860      THE   GRANDMOTHER   OF  SLAVES. 

that  old  homestead,  that  had  received  and  sheltered 
me  in  so  many  sorrows.  Grandmother  took  me  by 
the  hand,  and  said,  "  My  child,  let  us  pray."  We 
knelt  down  together,  with  my  arm  clasped  round 
the  faithful,  loving  old  friend  I  was  about  to  leave 
forever.  On  no  other  occasion  has  it  been  my  lot 
to  listen  to  so  fervent  a  supplication  for  mercy  and 
protection.  It  thrilled  through  my  heart  and  in- 
spired me  with  trust  in  God.  I  staggered  into  the 
street,  faint  in  body,  thougli  strong  of  purpose.  I 
did  not  look  back  upon  the  dear  old  place,  though 
I  felt  that  I  should  never  see  it  again. 

[The  granddaughter  found  friends  at  the  North, 
and,  being  uncommonly  quick  in  her  perceptions, 
she  soon  did  much  to  supply  the  deficiencies  of 
early  education.  While  leading  a  worthy,  indus- 
trious life  in  New  York,  she  twice  very  narrowly 
escaped  becoming  a  victim  to  the  infamous  Fu«n- 

J.  O  O 

tive  Slave  Law.  A  noble-hearted  lady  purchased 
her  freedom,  and  thereby  rescued  her  from  further 
danger.  She  thus  closes  the  story  of  her  venerable 
ancestor :  • — ] 

My  grandmother  lived  to  rejoice  in  the  knowl- 
edge of  my  freedom  ;  but  not  long  afterward  a  let 
ter  came  to  me  with  a  black  seal.  It  was  from  a 
friend  at  the  South,  who  informed  me  that  she  had 
gone  "  where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and 
where  the  weary  are  at  rest."  Among  the  gloomy 
recollections  of  my  life  in  bondage  come  tender 
memories  of  that  good  grandmother,  like  a  few 


THE   GRANDMOTHER   OF  SLAVES.     361 

fleecy  clouds  floating  over  a  dark  and    troubled 
S6a-  H.  J. 

NOTE.  —  The  above  account  is  no  fiction.  The 
author,  who  was  thirty  years  in  slavery,  wrote  it 
in  an  interesting  book  entitled  "  Linda."  She  is 
an  esteemed  friend  of  mine  ;  and  I  introduce  this 
portion  of  her  story  here  to  illustrate  the  power 
of  character  over  circumstances.  She  has  intense 
sympathy  for  those  who  are  still  suffering  in  the 
bondage  from  which  she  escaped.  She  is  now 
devoting  all  her  energies  tq  the  poor  refugees  in 
our  camps,  comforting  the  afflicted,  nursing  the 
sick,  and  teaching  the  children.  On  the  1st  of 
January,  1863,  she  wrote  me  a  letter,  which  began 
as  follows  :  "  I  have  lived  to  hear  the  Proclama- 
tion of  Freedom  for  my  suffering  people.  All  my 
wrongs  are  forgiven.  I  am  more  than  repaid  for 
all  I  have  endured.  Glory  to  God  in  the  highest ! " 

L.  M.  C. 


WE  hear  men  often  enough  speak  of  seeing  God 
in  the  stars  and  the  flowers,  but  they  will  never  be 
truly  religious,  till  they  learn  to  behold  Him  in 
each  other  also,  where  He  is  most  easily,  yet  most 

rarely  discovered. 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 
16 


AULD    LANG    SYNE. 


By   ROBERT    BURNS. 


SHOULD  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  never  brought  to  min'  ? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  days  o'  lang  syne  ? 

CHORUS. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear. 

For  auld  lang  syne  ; 
We  '11  tak'  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  ran  about  the  braes, 

And  pu'd  the  gowans  *  fine  ; 
But  we  've  wandered  mony  a  weary  foot, 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn,f 
Frae  morning  sun  till  dine  ; 


*  Wild  daisies. 


t  Brook. 


AULD  LANG  SYNE.  363 

But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roared 
Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

CHORUS. 
For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne  ; 
We  '11  tak'  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 


OLD    FOLKS    AT    HOME. 

THEY  love  the  places  where  they  wandered 

When  they  were  young ; 
They  love  the  books  they  've  often  pondered, 
They  love  the  tunes  they  've  sung. 

The  easy-chair,  so  soft  and  dozy, 

Is  their  delight ; 

The  ample  slippers,  warm  and  cozy, 
And  the  dear  old  bed  at  night. 

CHORUS. 
Near  their  hearth-stones,  warm  and  cheery, 

Where,  by  night  or  day, 
They  're  free  to  rest  when  they  are  weary, 
There  the  old  folks  love  to  stay. 

L.  M.  C. 


OLD    UNCLE    TOMMY. 


FROM    THE    CHRISTIAN    REGISTER. 


"Let  him,  where  and  when  he  will,  sit  down 
Beneath  the  trees,  or  by  the  grassy  bank 
Of  highway-side,  and  with  the  little  birds 
Share  his  chance-gathered  meal  ;  and  finally, 
As  in  the  eye  of  Nature  he  has  lived, 
So  in  the  eye  of  Nature  let  him  die." 

WORDSWORTH. 

HE  morning  after  the  storm  was  calm 
£  I  ,  :  and  beautiful ;  just  one  of  those  days 

so   dear    to    every    lover  of  Nature  ; 

for  every  true  worshipper  of  our  all- 
bountiful  Mother  is  a  poet  at  heart,  though  his 
lips  may  often  fail  to  utter  the  rich  experience  of 
his  soul.  The  air  was  full  of  fragrance  and  the 
songs  of  birds.  Here  and  there  a  gentle  breeze 
would  shower  down  the  drops  of  moisture  from 
the  trees,  forming  a  mimic  rain  ;  every  bush  and 
shrub,  and  each  separate  blade  of  grass,  glittered 
in  the  morning  sunlight,  as  if  hung  with  brightest 
jewels.  The  stillness  wTas  in  harmony  with  the 


OLD   UNCLE  TOMMY.  365 

day  of  rest,  and  only  the  most  peaceful  thoughts 
were  suggested  by  tin's  glorious  calm,  returning 
after  the  tempest. 

The  late  proprietor  of  the  Leigh  Manor  had  pre- 
sented a  small,  though  very  perfect,  chime  of  bells 
to  Leighton  Church  ;  they  had  never  been  success- 
fully played  until  now,  when  the  ringers,  having 
become  more  skilful,  they  for  the  first  time  pealed 
a  regular  chant ;  and  right  merrily  did  the  sound 
go  forth  over  the  quiet  plain. 

To  God  the  mighty  Lord, 

Your  joyful  songs  repeat ; 
To  Him  your  praise  accord, 

As  good  as  lie  is  great. 

"  Ah,"  said  an  old  man,  leaning  on  his  staff, 
and  gazing  at  the  bells,  "  how  I  wish  the  Masther 
could  a'  heard  ye  !  Well,  pVaps  he  does  hear  the 
bonny  bells  a-praising  God.  God  bless  thee,  dear 
Masther,  and  have  thee  forever  in  his  holy  keep- 
ing ! ''  and  raising  his  hat  reverently  from  his  head, 
the  old  man  stood  with  the  white  hair  streaming 
back  upon  his  shoulders,  leaving  unshaded  his  up- 
turned countenance,  where  were  visible  the  traces 
of  many  a  conflict  and  of  many  a  hard-earned  vic- 
tory ;  the  traces  only,  for  time  and  living  faith  had 
smoothed  the  deeper  marks.  As  in  Nature  this 
morning  you  saw  there  had  been  storm  and  fierce 
strife ;  but  now  all  was  at  peace.  The  clear  blue 
eye  of  the  aged  man  shone  with  a  brighter  light 
than  vouth  alone  can  o;ive.  It  was  the  undyinor 


366  OLD   UNCLE   TOMMY. 

light  of  immortality  ;  for,  old  and  poor  and  igno- 
rant as  he  was,  to  worldly  eyes,  his  soul  had  at- 
tained a  noble  stature  ;  and  as  he  stood  there  with 
uncovered  head,  in  the  June  sunshine,  there  was  a 
majesty  about  him  which  no  mere  earthly  rank 
can  impart.  You  saw  before  you  a  child  of  the 
Great  Father  ;  you  felt  that  he  communed  in  spirit 
with  his  God,  as  with  a  dear  and  loving  parent ; 
that  the  Most  High  was  very  nigh  unto  him.  And 
yet  this  man  dwelt  amongst  the  paupers  of  a  coun- 
try almshouse,  and  men  called  him  insane  !  But 
he  was  "  harmless,"  they  said  ;  so  he  was  allowed 
to  come  and  go  about  the  neighborhood,  as  he 
pleased,  and  no  one  feared  him. 

The  little  children,  as  they  passed  to  Sunday 
School  this  morning,  stepped  more  lightly,  lest 
they  should  disturb  him  ;  for  he  was  a  favorite 
with  the  "  little  people,"  as  he  called  them. 

When  beyond  his  hearing,  they  whispered  to 
one  another,  "  I  don't  believe  Uncle  Tommy  is 
crazy,  do  you  ?  I  never  want  to  plague  him  ;  he  's 
so  kind." 

"  He  is  n't  a  mite  like  laughing  Davy,"  said 
another ;  "  for  Davy  is  real  mischievous  some- 
times, and  Uncle  Tommy  is  n't  a  bit  ;  what  do 
you  s'pose  folks  call  him  crazy  for?" 

kk  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  whispered  a  third, 
"  for  he  knows  ever  so  much.  I  guess  it 's  'cause 
he  seems  as  he  does  now  ;  and  nobody  else  ever 
does,  do  they  ?  That 's  what  folks  laugh  at." 


OLD   UNCLE   TOMMY.  367 

"  Well,  it  's  too  bad,"  exclaimed  a  rosy  little 
girl  of  nine  or  ten  summers.  "  I  mean  to  go  speak 
to  him.  That  '11  wake  him  up.  He  's  always  so 
good  to  us,  I  liate  to  have  folks  look  queer  at  him, 
and  make  fun  of  his  ways." 

"  Why,  Nelly,  he  don't  care  for  the  laughing." 

"  No  matter ;  I  do,"  stoutly  maintained  the 
child  ;  and  going  up  to  the  old  man,  she  softly 
pulled  his  clean,  patched  sleeve,  and  said,  "  Uncle 
Tommy,  if  you  please,  do  look  here  !  " 

He  did  not  seem  to  hear  her  for  a  little  while ; 
then  passing  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  as  if 
rousing  himself,  he  turned,  with  a  pleasant,  cheer- 
ing manner,,  to  the  children,  who  had  gathered 
around  him:  "Ah!  little  Nelly,  is  it  you?  and 
all  my  little  people  ?  why  you  're  out  early  this 
good  morning.  May  the  blessing  of  Our  Father 
shine  through  your  young  hearts,  making  beautiful 
your  lives,  as  the  sunshine  makes  beautiful  your 
fresh  young  faces  !" 

"  Uncle  Tommy,"  said  John  Anton,  "  what 
makes  you  love  the  sun  so  like  everything  ?  " 

Old  Tommy  smiled  at  the  boy's  eagerness  ;  but 
looking  upward,  he  answered  :  "  I  love  it  as  the 
first,  brightest  gift  of  Our  Father.  I  see  in  it  the 
purest  emblem  of  Him  whose  dwelling  is  the  light." 
After  a  moment's  silence,  he  extended  his  hands 
over  the  children's  heads,  saying  fervently,  "  Pour 
thy  light  into  their  souls,  O  Father,  that,  the  eyes 
of  the  mind  being  opened,  they  may  see  Thee  in 


3G8  OLD   UNCLE    TOMMY. 

all  thy  works  I  "  Then  taking  Nelly  by  the 
hand,  he  asked,  if  they  were  not  too  soon  for 
school. 

"  Yes,"  answered  she  ;  "  for  we  came  to  hear 
the  bells  chime.  It 's  so  pleasant,  Uncle  Tommy, 
perhaps  you  will  tell  us  something.  Just  a  little 
while,  till  the  teachers  come." 

"  O  yes,  do  now,  Uncle  Tommy,  tell  us  some 
of  the  nice  stones  you  know,"  chimed  in  the 
whole  group. 

"  I  '11  be  still  as  a  mouse,  if  you  will,"  coaxed 
a  lively  child,  whose  ceaseless  motion  usually  dis- 
turbed all  quiet  talk. 

Uncle  Tommy  patted  her  curly  head,  and  good- 
naturedly  consented  to  gratify  them,  "  if  they 
would  try  and  be  good  as  the  flowers  in  the 
meadow  yonder." 

k'  Yes,  yes,  we  will,"  shouted  they. 

"  Now  lean  on  me,  and  I  '11  help  you,  Uncle 
Tommy,"  said  Nelly,  who  usually  assumed  the 
charge  of  him  when  she  found  an  opportunity. 
So,  with  one  hand  resting  upon  her  shoulder,  and 
the  other  supported  by  his  staff,  the  old  man,  who 
looked  older  now,  as  his  hat  shaded  his  face,  moved 
feebly  forward,  surrounded  by  the  happy  children. 
They  walked  a  few  steps  beyond  the  corner  of  the 
church,  and  soon  came  to  a  projection  in  one  of 
the  buttresses,  that  was  often  used  by  the  people 
as  a  seat  in  summer ;  hither  they  carefully  led 
Uncle  Tommy,  who  could  still  enjoy  his  beloved 


OLD   UNCLE   TOMMY.  369 

sunshine,  whilst  he  rested  his  weary  limbs.  It  was 
a  sight  worthy  of  an  artist's  pencil ;  the  ancient 
stone  church,  the  venerable  man,  the  young  chil- 
dren, the  lofty  trees,  the  birds,  the  shadows,  the 
sunlight,  and  the  graves. 

"  Sha'n't  I  take  off  your  hat,"  asked  John,  "  so 
you  can  feel  warm  ?  "  and  away  went  the  hat,  to 
the  mutual  satisfaction  of  Uncle  Tommy  and  the 
children  ;  for  they  loved  him,  and  liked  to  see  his 
white  hair  in  the  bright  sunbeams,  —  "  looking  ex- 
actly like  the  '  Mary's  threads  '  on  the  dewy  grass, 
so  silvery  and  shiny,"  Nelly  used  to  say. 

"What  are  you  going  to  tell  us?"  urged  the 
impatient  little  Janette,  softly. 

He  looked  all  around  before  speaking ;  up  at  the 
distant  blue  sky  flooded  with  light ;  abroad  upon 
the  fields  clothed  in  richest  verdure  ;  at  the  gently 
rustling  elms  ;  the  oaks,  the  yews,  and  hemlocks 
in  the  quiet  churchyard  ;  the  eager  living  group 
at  his  feet ;  all  were  seen  in  that  one  compre- 
hensive glance.  "  It  is  my  birthday,  little  people," 
said  he,  at  length,  smilingly  nodding  to  them. 

"  Why  Uncle  Tommy,"  cried  the  astonished 
children,  in  their  simplicity,  "  do  you  have  birth- 
days, like  us  ?  We  thought  you  was  too  old  !  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  he,  shaking  his  head,  "  I  'm 
very  old,  but  I  remember  my  birthdays  still.  It  's 
ninety  years,  this  blessed  day,  since  I  came  here 
a  wee  bit  of  a  baby  ;  and  what  a  blessed  Father 
has  led  me  the  long  weary  way  !  " 

16*  X 


370  OLD   UNCLE   TOMMY. 

"  Shall  you  like  to  die,  Uncle  Tommy  ?  Do 
you  want  to  die  ?  "  asked  Nelly. 

"  I  want,  dear  child,  to  live  just  as  long  as  our 
Father  pleases.  I  don't  feel  impatient  to  go  nor 
to  stay  ;  'cause  that  a'n't  right,  Nelly.  I  want  to 
do  exactly  as  God  wills  ;  but  I  sha'n't  feel  sorry 
to  go  when  the  time  comes  ;  all  I  wish  about  it 
is,  that  the  sun  may  shine  like  now  when  I  go 
home,  and  that  I  may  know  it." 

Another  little  boy  here  joined  the  group.  He 
was  the  youngest  son  of  the  Rector.  Pie  had 
only  returned  home  the  previous  day  to  pass  the 
summer  vacation,  after  a  six  months'  absence. 
There  was  a  little  shyness  at  first  between  the 
children,  which  soon  disappeared  before  the  kindly 
influence  of  the  old  man,  in  whose  eyes  all  human 
beings  were  recognized  as  the  children  of  God. 
With  him  there  were  no  rich  and  no  poor. 

"  Welcome  home  again,  little  Herman  !  "  was 
his  greeting,  accompanied  by  a  smile  so  genial, 
it  went  straight  to  the  boy's  heart. 

"  Thank  you,  Uncle  Tommy,"  said  he,  shaking 
hands,  cordially.  "  I  am  ri<rht  o-lad  to  be  here,  I 

*•  ~  O 

can  assure  you  ;  and  very  glad  to  see  you  in  your 
old  corner,  looking  so  well.  But  what  were  you 
saying  about  '  going  home,'  when  I  interrupted 
you  by  coming  up?  Pray  go  on." 

Before  he  could  answer,  Janette  said,  "  It 's 
Uncle  Tommy's  birthday,  this  is!" 

"  Indeed  !  and  how  old  is  he  ?  "  asked  Herman, 
looking  at  the  old  man  for  a  reply. 


OLD    UNCLE   TOMMY.  371 

"  Ninety  years,  thank  God,"  was  the  cheerful 
answer. 

"  O  what  a  long,  long  time  to  live  !  "  slowly  fell 
from  Herman's  lips.  He  was  a  delicate  boy,  and 
thoughtful  beyond  his  years,  as  is  often  the  case 
with  invalid  children  ;  and  now  he  rested  his 
pale,  intelligent  face  upon  his  hand,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  Uncle  Tommy,  and  thought  what  a  long, 
long  time  was  ninety  years !  Then  he  looked 
upon  the  graves,  and  wondered  whether  any  of 
those  whose  bodies  were  lying  there  knew  what 
an  old,  old  man  was  still  seeing  the  sun  shine 
so  long  after  they  were  gone.  There  were  little 
graves  and  large  ones ;  Uncle  Tommy  knew  al- 
most all  of  them,  and  still  he  lived  on  all  alone  ; 
and  they  had  some  of  them  left  families.  He 
wondered  on  and  on  ;  his  reverie  was  short,  but 
crowded  with  perplexing  thoughts. 

Uncle  Tommy  put  an  end  to  it,  by  saying,  in 
answer  to  Herman's  words,  "  The  time  is  only 
long,  when  I  don't  mind  our  Father's  will.  When 
I  obey,  as  the  sun,  and  the  wind,  and  all  about  us 
in  Nature  does,  then  I  'm  as  happy  as  a  cretur  can 
be  ;  and  time  seems  just  right.  But  what  I  was  a 
saying  about  going  home  was  this  ;  I  a'n't  in  a 
hurry  to  go,  'cause  I  'm  here  so  long  ;  nor  am  I 
wanting  to  stay  ;  only  just  as  God  pleases.  But 
when  the  time  does  come,  I  '11  be  glad  to  go  home, 
after  my  school  time  here  is  over.  P'r'aps  just  as 
you  feel  now,  Herman  ;  and  I  hope  when  Uncle 


372  OLD    UNCLE   TOMMY. 

Tommy  has  gone,  with  the  sunshine,  out  there, 
you  little  people  will  learn  to  love  the  fair  works 
of  God  our  Father,  just  as  he  does  now.  And 
don't  forget  when  you're  a  going  to  be  unkind  or 
naughty,  that  you  little  ones,  and  all  the  little 
children,  and  all  the  grown  people,  are  the  fairest, 
noblest  of  God's  works.  And  if  you  think  of 
Uncle  Tommy,  when  you  see  the  sun  shine,  and 
the  pretty  flowers  and  birds,  and  remember  how 
he  loved  them,  think  of  him  when  you  are  a  going 
to  strike  one  another,  or  do  any  naughty  thing, 
and  remember  how  often  he  has  told  you  about 
the  dear  Jesus,  who  took  little  children  in  his  arms 
and  blessed  them,  and  told  all  the  people,  great  and 
small,  to  love  God  best,  and  then  to  love  one 
another  as  they  loved  themselves.  Now  if  you 
try  to  think  of  this,  I  don't  believe  you  '11  be 
naughty  very  often  ;  and  the  fewer  times  you  're 
naughty,  the  happier  you  '11  be  when  you  look 
round  on  this  dear  beautiful  world." 

"  But,  Uncle  Tommy,"  said  Nelly,  "  we  forget 
about  being  good  sometimes,  when  we  get  cross, 
and  everybody  scolds  at  us  'cause  we  are  so 
naughty  ;  and  that  makes  us  act  worse,  ever  so 
much  ;  don't  it,  Ann  ?  "  appealing  to  a  girl  about 
her  own  a<ie. 

O 

u  Yes,"  rejoined  Ann,  "  nobody  ever  says  any- 
thing about  being  good,  in  the  way  you  do, 
Uncle  Tommy  ;  except  in  Sunday  School,  and 
in  Church  ;  and  somehow  it  don't  seem  just  the 


OLD    UNCLE    TOMMY.  373 

same  as  when  you  talk.  Oh,  Uncle  Tommy,  I 
believe  we  should  always  be  good  children,  if  you 
could  only  be  along  with  us  all  the  time." 

"  So  do  I !  "  "  And  I !  "  was  heard  from  the 
little  circle. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  cried  Nelly,  impatiently,  "  how  I 
do  wish  we  had  a  great  big  world,  all  our  own, 
with  nobody  ugly  to  plague  us  ;  only  just  for 
Uncle  Tommy  and  us  to  live  in.  TJien  we  'd 
be  good  as  could  be.  Don't  you  wish  so,  dear 
Uncle  Tommy?" 

"  No,  dear  children,  I  wish  for  no  better,  or 
bigger  world  to  live  in,  than  this.  Our  Father  put 
us  here,  and  put  it  in  our  own  power  to  be  happy  ; 
that  means,  to  be  good  ;  and  if  we  don't  make  out 
to  do  what  He  wants  us  to  do  here,  I  don't  believe 
we  should  find  it  half  as  easy  in  a  world  such  as 
folks  dream  about.  It 's  a  wrong  notion,  to  my 
thinking,  to  s'pose  we  could  behave  better  in  some 
other  place  than  in  the  one  where  our  lot 's  cast 
in  life,  or  at  some  other  time  than  the  present 
time  going  over  our  heads.  Remember  this,  dear 
little  people,  when  you  grow  up,  and  don't  wish 
for  anything  it  is  n't  God's  will  you  should  have. 
Try  all  you  can  to  mind  the  Lord,  who  loves  you 
so  well  ;  and  if  trouble  and  sorrow  come  to  you, 
as  they  do  to  every  human  cretur,  and  you  can  be 
sure  it 's  not  your  own  doing,  then  patiently  trust 
in  our  Father,  and  remember  what  the  dear  bells 
sav  :  — 


374  OLD    UNCLE   TOMMY. 

'  For  God  doth  prove 

Our  constant  friend ; 
His  boundless  love 
Will  never  end.' 

You  're  little  and  young,  and  full  of  health  now, 
so  you  don't  know  what  I  mean,  as  you  will 
by  and  by,  when  you  grow  older ;  but  you  can 
remember,  if  you  can't  quite  take  it  in,  that  I  tell 
you,  after  trying  it  for  a  good  many  years,  I  know 
our  happiness  depends  a  deal  more  on  ourselves 
than  on  other  people  ;  and  it 's  only  when  we  're 
lazy,  and  don't  want  to  stir  ourselves,  that  we 
think  other  people  have  an  easier  time  than  we 
do.  B'lieve  me,  dear  children,  everybody  has 
the  means  of  being  happy  or  unhappy  in  their 
hearts ;  and  these  they  must  take  wherever  they 
go  ;  and  these  make  their  home  and  their  world." 

The  bell  for  school  began  to  ring,  and  the  chil- 
dren sprang  to  their  feet  instantly,  saying,  "  Good 
by,  Uncle  Tommy  !  It  's  school-time  now  !  " 
"  Good  by,  little  ones,"  said  he.  "  You  go  to  one 
school,  and  I  '11  go  to  another,  among  the  dumb 
children  of  our  Lord  !  " 

Nelly  and  Ann  lingered  after  the  others  a 
moment.  "  Uncle  Tommy,"  said  Ann,  "  we  will 
try  to  do  as  you  want  us  to,  and  remember  what 
you  say." 

He  laid  his  hands  upon  their  heads,  and,  looking 
up  to  Heaven,  said,  "  May  the  Spirit  of  the  dear 
Lord  be  with  ve,  and  guide  vour  tender  feet  in 

J       3  O  */ 


OLD   UNCLE   TOMMY.  375 

the  narrow  way  of  life  !  Bless  them,  Father,  with 
thy  loving  presence  through  their  unending  life  !  " 

There  was  a  moment's  pause ;  then  Ann  said 
earnestly,  "  I  love  dearly  to  have  you  bless  me, 
Uncle  Tommy  "  ;  and  with  a  _"  Good  by,"  off 
she  ran  to  school. 

Nelly  stopped  a  moment.  She  had  nestled  close 
to  the  old  man's  side  without  speaking,  and  now, 
throwing  her  arms  around  his  neck  with  a  real 
overflowing  of  her  young  heart,  she  kissed  his 
cheek,  and  then  darted  off  to  join  her  companions 
in  school.  Uncle  Tommy  was  surprised,  for  Nelly 
did  not  often  express  her  affection  by  caresses,  as 
most  children  do,  but  by  kind  deeds. 

The  action,  slight  though  it  was,  touched  a 
long  silent  chord  in  the  old  man's  memory.  The 
curtain  veiling  the  past  seemed  withdrawn,  and 
again  he  was  a  child.  There  was  the  path  from 
the  village  across  the  church-yard,  just  as  it  was 
when  first  his  mother  had  led  him  to  church,  a 
tiny  thing  clinging  to  her  skirts.  He  was  the 
youngest  of  seven,  and  the  pet ;  O  so  long  ago ! 
He  saw  again  before  him  his  young  brothers  and 
sisters,  full  of  healthful  glee ;  then  other  forms 
of  long-parted  ones  joined  the  procession  of  years  ; 
his  sisters'  and  brothers'  children  ;  his  own  cher- 
ished wife  and  much-loved  boys  and  girls :  all 
gone,  long,  long  years  ago  ;  and  he  alone,  of  all 
that  numerous  company,  remained.  "  Thou,  Fa- 
ther, hast  ever  been  on  my  right  hand  and  on 


376  OLD   UNCLE   TOMMY. 

my  left ;  very  safely  hast  thou  led  me  on  through 
joy  and  sorrow  unto  this  shining  day ;  blessed  be 
thy  holy  name  !  " 

So  prayed  the  old  man  his  last  earthly  thanks- 
giving. When  the  people  were  dispersing  to 
their  homes  after  service,  one,  seeing  him  sitting 
there  in  the  sheltered  nook,  came  to  say  "  Good 
morning "  ;  and  receiving  no  answer,  he  touched 
his  hand.  It  was  cold.  There  he  sat  in  the 
glorious  sunshine,  his  old  brown  hat  by  his  side, 
wreathed  with  fresh  grass  and  flowers,  as  was 

o  ' 

his  custom  ;  but  the  freed  spirit  had  gone  to  the 
Father  he  so  lovingly  worshipped. 

They  made  his  grave  in  the  sunniest  part  of 
the  church-yard,  where  an  opening  in  the  trees 
afforded  a  lovely  view  of  the  village  and  the 
meadows,  with  the  gentle  flowing  river,  along 
whose  peaceful  banks  the  old  man  had  loved  to 
•wander,  gathering  flowers  and  leaves  and  grasses, 
and  throwing  crumbs  to  the  birds,  who  knew  him 
too  well  to  fly  from  him.  Here  they  laid  him, 
at  the  last,  and,  instead  of  monument  or  head- 
stone, the  children  brought  sweet  flowering  shrubs, 
and  wild  brier  from  the  lanes  or  fields,  to  plant 
around  his  quiet  grave. 

"  Uncle  Tommy  is  not  there,"  said  the  chil- 
dren. "  He  has  gone  home.  This  is  only  his 
poor  body,  here  in  the  ground  !  "  Thus  did  the 
influence  of  his  bright,  ever-young  spirit  remain 
with  the  "  little  people  "  long  after  Uncle  Tommy 
had  ceased  to  talk  with  them. 


SITTING    IN    THE    SUN. 


WHEN  Hope  deceives,  and  friends  betray, 
And  kinsmen  shun  me  with  a  flout ; 
When  hair  grows  .white,  and  eyes  grow  dim, 

And  life's  slow  sand  is  nigh  run  out, 
I  '11  ask  no  boon  of  any  one, 
But  sing  old  songs,  and  sit  i'  the  sun. 

When  memory  is  my  only  joy, 

And  all  my  thoughts  shall  backward  turn  ; 
When  eyes  shall  cease  to  glow  with  love, 

And  heart  with  generous  fire  to  burn, 
I  '11  ask  no  boon  of  any  one, 
But  sing  old  songs,  and  sit  i'  the  sun. 


When  sounds  grow  low  to  deafening  ears, 
And  suns  shine  not  as  once  they  did ; 

When  parting  is  no  more  a  grief, 
And  I  do  whatsoe'er  they  bid, 

1 11  ask  no  boon  of  any  one, 

But  sing  old  songs,  and  sit  i'  the  sun. 


378  SITTING  IN  THE  SUN. 

Then  underneath  a  spreading  elm, 
That  guards  some  little  cottage  door, 

I  '11  dance  a  grandchild  on  my  knee, 
And  count  rny  past  days  o'er  and  o'er ; 

I  '11  ask  no  boon  of  any  one, 

But  sing  old  songs  and  sit  i'  the  sun. 

ANONYMOUS. 


How  far  from  here  to  heaven  ? 

Not  very  far,  my  friend  ; 
A  single  hearty  step 

Will  all  thy  journey  end. 

Hold  there  !  where  runnest  thou  ? 

Know  heaven  is  in  thee  ! 
Seek'st  thou  for  God  elsewhere  ? 

His  face  thou  'It  never  see. 

Go  out,  God  will  go  in  ; 

Die  thou,  and  let  Him  live ; 
Be  not,  and  He  will  be ; 

Wait,  and  He  '11  all  things  give. 

I  don't  believe  in  death. 

If  hour  by  hour  I  die, 
'T  is  hour  by  hour  to  gain 

A  better  life  thereby." 

ANGELUS  SILESIUS,  A.  D.  1620. 


AUNT    KIND  LY. 


BY   THEODORE    PARKER. 


ISS  KINDLY  is  aunt  to  everybody, 
and  has  been,  for  so  long  a  time, 
that  none  remember  to  the  contrary. 
The  little  children  love  her  ;  and  she 
helped  their  grandmothers  to  bridal  ornaments 
threescore  years  ago.  Nay,  this  boy's  grandfather 
found  that  the  way  to  college  lay  through  her 
pocket.  Generations  not  her  own  rise  up  and  call 
her  blessed.  To  this  man's  father  her  patient  toil 
gave  the  first  start  in  life.  When  that  great  for- 
tune was  a  seed,  it  was  she  who  carried  it  in  her 
hand.  That  wide  river  of  reputation  ran  out  of 
the  cup  which  her  bounty  filled.  Now  she  is  old, 
very  old.  The  little  children,  who  cling  about 
her,  with  open  mouth  and  great  round  eyes,  won- 
der that  anybody  should  ever  be  so  old  ;  or  ask 
themselves  whether  Aunt  Kindly  ever  had  a 
mother  to  kiss  her  mouth.  To  them  she  is  coeval 
with  the  sun,  and,  like  that,  an  institution  of  the 


380  AUNT  KINDLY. 

country.  At  Christmas,  they  think  she  is  the 
wife  of  St.  Nicholas  himself,  such  an  advent  is  there 
of  blessings  from  her  hand. 

Her  hands  are  thin,  her  voice  is  feeble,  her  back 
is  bent,  and  she  walks  with  a  staff,  which  is  the 
best  limb  of  the  three.  She  wears  a  cap  of  an- 
tique pattern,  yet  of  her  own  nice  make.  She  has 
great  round  spectacles,  and  holds  her  book  away 
off  the  other  side  of  the  candle  when  she  reads. 
For  more  than  sixty  years  she  has  been  a  special 
providence  to  the  family.  How  she  used  to  go 
forth,  the  very  charity  of  God,  to  heal  and  soothe 
and  bless  !  How  industrious  are  her  hands  !  How 
thoughtful  and  witty  that  fertile  mind  !  Her  heart 
has  gathered  power  to  love  in  all  the  eighty-six 
years  of  her  toilsome  life.  When  the  birth-angel 
came  to  a  related  house,  she  was  there  to  be  the 
mother's  mother ;  ay,  mother  also  to  the  new- 
born baby's  soul.  And  when  the  wings  of  death 
flapped  in  the  street  and  shook  a  neighbor's  door, 
she  smoothed  the  pillow  for  the  fainting  head  ;  she 
soothed  and  cheered  the  spirit  of  the  waiting  man, 
opening  the  curtains  of  heaven,  that  he  might  look 
through  and  see  the  welcoming  face  of  the  dear 
Infinite  Mother  ;  nay,  she  put  the  wings  of  her 
own  strong,  experienced  piety  under  him,  and 
sought  to  bear  him  up. 

Now,  these  things  are  passed  by.  No,  they  are 
not  passed  by  ;  for  they  are  in  the  memory  of  the 
dear  God,  and  every  good  deed  she  has  done  is 


AUNT  KINDLY.  381 

treasured  in  her  own  heart.  The  bulb  shuts  up 
the  summer  in  its  breast,  which  in  winter  will 
come  out  a  fragrant  hyacinth.  Stratum  after 
stratum,  her  good  works  are  laid  up,  imperishable, 
in  the  geology  of  her  character. 

It  is  near  noon,  now  ;  and  she  is  alone.  She 
has  been  thoughtful  all  day,  talking  inwardly  to 
herself.  The  family  notice  it,  but  say  nothing. 
In  her  chamber,  she  takes  a  little  casket  from  her 
private  drawer ;  and  from  thence  a  book,  gilt- 
edged  and  clasped  ;  but  the  clasp  is  worn,  the 
gilding  is  old,  the  binding  faded  by  long  use.  Her 
hands  tremble  as  she  opens  it.  First  she  reads 
her  own  name,  on  the  fly-leaf ;  only  her  Christian 
name,  "  Agnes,"  and  the  date.  Sixty-eight  years 
ago,  this  day,  that  name  was  written  there,  in  a 
clear,  youthful,  clerkly  hand,  with  a  little  tremble 
in  it,  as  if  the  heart  beat  over  quick.  It  is  very 
well  worn,  that  dear  old  Bible.  It  opens  of  its 
own  accord,  at  the  fourteenth  chapter  of  St.  John. 
There  is  a  little  folded  paper  there  ;  it  touches 
the  first  verse  and  the  twenty-seventh.  She  sees 
neither ;  she  reads  both  out  of  her  soul.  "  Let 
not  your  heart  be  troubled  ;  ye  believe  in  God, 
believe  also  in  me."  "  Peace  I  leave  with  you. 
My  peace  I  give  unto  vou.  Not  as  the  world 

•/  J.  !/ 

giveth,  give  1  unto  you."  She  opens  the  paper. 
There  is  a  little  brown  dust  in  it,  the  remnant  of  a 
flower.  She  takes  the  precious  relic  in  her  hand, 
made  cold  by  emotion.  She  drops  a  tear  on  it, 
and  the  dust  is  transfigured  before  her  eyes  :  it  is  a 


382  AUNT  KINDLY. 

red  rose  of  the  spring,  not  quite  half  blown,  dewy 
fresh.  She  is  old  no  longer.  She  is  not  Aunt 
Kindly  now  ;  she  is  sweet  Agnes,  as  the  maiden 
of  eighteen  was,  eight  and  sixty  years  ago,  one  day 
in  May,  when  all  nature  was  woosome  and  win- 
ning, and  every  flower-bell  rung  in  the  marriage 
of  the  year.  Her  lover  had  just  put  that  red  rose 
of  the  spring  into  her  hand,  and  the  good  God  put 
another  on  her  cheek,  not  quite  half-blown,  dewy 
fresh.  The  young  man's  arm  is  around  her  ;  her 
brown  curls  fall  on  his  shoulder ;  she  feels  his 
breath  on  her  face,  his  cheek  on  hers  ;  their  lips 
join,  and  like  two  morning  dew-drops  in  that  rose, 
their  two  loves  rush  into  one. 

But  the  youth  must  wander  away  to  a  far  land. 
She  bids  him  take  her  Bible.  They  will  think  of 
each  other  as  they  look  at  the  North  Star.  He 
saw  the  North  Star  hano;  over  the  turrets  of  many 

O  «• 

a  foreign  town.  His  soul  went  to  God  ;  —  there 
is  as  straight  a  road  thither  from  India  as  from  any 
other  spot.  His  Bible  came  back  to  her ;  the 
Divine  love  in  it,  without  the  human  lover  ;  the 
leaf  turned  down  at  the  blessed  words  of  St.  John, 
first  and  twenty-seventh  verse  of  the  fourteenth 
chapter.  She  put  the  rose  there  to  mark  the  spot ; 
what  marks  the  thought  holds  now  the  symbol  of 
their  youthful  love.  To-day,  her  soul  is  with  him  : 
her  maiden  soul  with  his  angel-soul ;  and  one  day 
the  t\vo,  like  two  dew-drops,  will  rush  into  one 
immortal  wedlock,  and  the  old  age  of  earth  shall 
become  eternal  youth  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 


CROSSING    OVER. 


FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    UHLAND. 

MANY  a  year  is  in  its  grave, 
Since  I  crossed  this  restless  wave ; 
And  the  evening,  fair  as  ever, 
Shines  on  ruin,  rock,  and  river. 

Then,  in  this  same  boat,  beside, 
Sat  two  comrades  old  and  tried  ; 
One  with  all  a  father's  truth, 
One  with  all  the  fire  of  youth. 

One  on  earth  in  silence  wrought, 
And  his  grave  in  silence  sought ; 
But  the  younger,  brighter  form 
Passed  in  battle  and  in  storm. 

So,  whene'er  I  turn  my  eye 

Back  upon  the  days  gone -by, 

Saddening  thoughts  of  friends  come  o'er  me 

Friends  who  closed  their  course  before  me. 


384  CROSSING   OVER. 

Yet,  what  binds  us,  friend  to  friend, 
But  that  soul  with  soul  can  blend  ? 
Soul-like  were  those  hours  of  yore  — 
Let  us  walk  in  soul  once  more  ! 

Take,  O  boatman,  thrice  thy  fee ! 

Take  !  I  give  it  willingly  ; 

For,  invisibly  to  thee, 

Spirits  twain  have  crossed  with  me. 


THEY  are  all  gone  into  a  world  of  light, 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here  ! 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

DEAR,  beauteous  Death  !  the  jewel  of  the  just ! 

Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark  ! 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 

Could  man  outlook  that  mark  ! 

HE  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's  nest  may  know, 

At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 
But  what  fair  field  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,  as  angels,  in  some  brighter  dreams, 

Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted  themes, 
And  into  glory  peep. 

HENRY  VAUGHAN. 


A  LOVE  AFFAIR  AT  CRANFORD. 


BY   MRS.    GASKELL. 


g^ti^Z  THOUGHT,  after  Miss  Jenkyns's 
death,  that  probably  my  connection 
with  Cranford  would  cease.  I  was 
pleasantly  surprised,  therefore,  by  re- 
ceiving a  letter  from  Miss  Pole  proposing  that  I 
should  go  and  stay  with  her.  In  a  couple  of  days 
after  my  acceptance  came  a  note  from  Miss  Matey 
Jenkyns,  in  which,  in  a  rather  circuitous  and  very 
humble  manner,  she  told  me  how  much  pleasure  I 
should  confer  if  I  could  spend  a  week  or  two  with 
her,  either  before  or  after  I  had  been  at  Miss 
Pole's;  "for,"  she  said,  "since  my  dear  sister's 
death,  I  am  well  aware  I  have  no  attractions  to 
offer  :  it  is  only  to  the  kindness  of  my  friends  that 
I  can  owe  their  company.'' 

Of  course  I  promised  to  go  to  dear  Miss  Matey 
as  soon  as  I  had  ended  my  visit  to  Miss  Pole. 
The  day  after  my  arrival  at  Cranford,  I  went  to 

17  T 


386       A   LOVE  AFFAIR  AT  CRANFORD. 

see  her,  much  wondering  what  the  house  would 
be  like  without  Miss  Jenkyns,  and  rather  dreading 
the  changed  aspect  of  things.  Miss  Matey  began 
to  cry  as  soon  as  she  saw  me.  She  was  evidently 
nervous  from  having  anticipated  my  call.  I  com- 
forted her  as  well  as  I  could ;  and  I  found  the  best 
consolation  I  could  give  was  the  honest  praise  that 
came  from  my  heart  as  I  spoke  of  the  deceased. 
Miss  Matey  slowly  shook  her  head  over  each  vir- 
tue, as  it  was  named  and  attributed  to  her  sister ; 
at  last  she  could  not  restrain  the  tears  which  had 
long  been  silently  flowing,  but  hid  her  face  behind 
her  handkerchief,  and  sobbed  aloud. 

"  Dear  Miss  Matey  !  "  said  I,  taking  her  hand  ; 
for  indeed  I  did  not  know  in  what  way  to  tell  her 
how  sorry  I  was  for  her,  left  deserted  in  the  world. 

She  put  down  her  handkerchief  and  said  :  "  My 
dear,  I  'd  rather  you  did  not  call  me  Matey. 
She  did  not  like  it.  But  I  did  many  a  thing  she 
did  not  like,  I  'm  afraid  ;  and  now  she  's  gone  !  If 
you  please,  my  love,  will  you  call  me  Matilda  ?  "' 

I  promised  faithfully,  and  began  to  practise  the 
new  name  with  Miss  Pole  that  very  day  ;  and,  by 
degrees,  Miss  Matilda's  feeling  on  the  subject  was 
known  through  Cranford,  and  the  appellation  of 
Matey  was  dropped  by  all,  except  a  very  old 
woman,  who  had  been  nurse  in  the  rector's  family, 
and  had  persevered,  through  many  long  years,  in 
calling  the  Miss  Jenkynses  "  the  girls  "  :  she  said 
"  Matev  "  to  the  day  of  her  death. 


A   LOVE  AFFAIR   AT  CRANFORD.       887 


It  seems  that  Miss  Pole  had  a  cousin,  once  or 
twice  removed,  who  had  offered  to  Miss  Matey 
long  ago.  Now,  this  cousin  lived  four  or  five 
rniles  from  Cranford,  on  his  own  estate  ;  but  his 
property  was  not  large  enough  to  entitle  him  to 
rank  higher  than  a  yeoman  ;  or,  rather,  with  some- 
thing of  the  "  pride  which  apes  humility,"  he  had 
refused  to  push  himself  on,  as  so  many  of  his  class 
had  done,  into  the  rank  of  the  squires.  He  would 
not  allow  himself  to  be  called  Thomas  Holbrook, 
Esq.  He  even  sent  back  letters  with  this  address, 
telling  the  postmistress  at  Cranford  that  his  name 
was  Mr.  Thomas  Holbrook,  yeoman.  He  rejected 
all  domestic  innovations.  He  would  have  the 
house  door  stand  open  in  summer,  and  shut  in 
winter,  without  knocker  or  bell  to  summon  a  ser- 
vant. The  closed  fist,  or  the  knob  of  the  stick, 
did  this  office  for  him,  if  he  found  the  door  locked. 
He  despised  every  refinement  which  had  not  its 
root  deep  down  in  humanity.  If  people  were  not 
ill,  he  saw  no  necessity  for  moderating  his  voice. 
He  spoke  the  dialect  of  the  country  in  perfection, 
and  constantly  used  it  in  conversation  ;  although 
Miss  Pole  (who  gave  me  these  particulars)  added, 
that  he  read  aloud  more  beautifully,  and  with  more 
feeling,  than  any  one  she  had  ever  heard,  except 
the  late  rector. 

"  And  how  came  Miss  Matilda  not  to  marry 
him  ?  "  asked  I. 


388       A   LOVE  AFFAIR   AT  CRANFORD. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  She  was  willing  enough, 
I  think  ;  but  you  know  Cousin  Thomas  would  not 
have  been  enough  of  a  gentleman  fur  the  rector 
and  Mrs.  and  Miss  Jenkyns." 

"  Well,  but  they  were  not  to  marry  him,"  said 
I,  impatiently. 

"  No,  but  they  did  not  like  Miss  Matey  to  marry 
below  her  rank.  You  know  she  was  the  rector's 
daughter,  and  somehow  they  are  related  to  Sir 
Peter  Arley  ;  Miss  Jenkyns  thought  a  deal  of 
that." 

"  Poor  Miss  Matey  !  "  said  I. 

"  Nay,  now,  I  don't  know  anything  more  than 
that  he  offered  and  was  refused.  Miss  Matey 
might  riot  like  him  ;  and  Miss  Jenkyns  might 
never  have  said  a  word :  it  is  only  a  guess  of 
mine." 

"  Has  she  never  seen  him  since  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  No,  I  think  not.  You  see  Woodley  (Cousin 
Thomas's  house)  lies  half-way  between  Cranford 
and  Misselton  ;  and  I  know  he  made  Misselton  his 
market-town  very  soon  after  he  had  offered  to  Miss 
Matey  ;  and  I  don't  think  he  has  been  into  Cran- 
ford above  once  or  twice  since.  One--,  when  I 
was  walking  with  Miss  Matey  in  High  Street,  she 
suddenly  darted  from  me  and  went  up  Shire  Lane. 
A  few  minutes  after,  I  was  startled  by  meeting 
Cousin  Thomas." 

"  How  old  is  lie  ?  "  I  asked,  after  a  pause  of 
castle-building. 


A   LOVE  AFFAIR  AT  CRANFORD.       389 

"  He  must  be  about  seventy,  I  think,  my  dear," 
said  Miss  Pole,  blowing  up  my  castle,  as  if  by  gun- 
powder, into  small  fragments. 

Very  soon  after,  I  had  the  opportunity  of  seeing 
Mr.  Holbrook ;  seeing,  too,  his  first  encounter 
with  his  former  love,  after  thirty  or  forty  years' 
separation.  I  was  helping  to  decide  whether  any 
of  the  new  assortment  of  colored  silks,  which  they 
had  just  received  at  the  shop,  would  help  to  match 
a  gray  and  black  mousseline-de-laine  that  wanted 
a  new  breadth,  when  a  tall,  thin,  Don  Quixote- 
looking  old  man  came  into  the  shop  for  some 
woollen  gloves.  I  had  never  seen  the  person  be- 
fore, and  I  watched  him  rather  attentively,  while 
Miss  Matey  listened  to  the  shopman.  The  stran- 
ger was  rather  striking.  He  wore  a  blue  coat, 
with  brass  buttons,  drab  breeches,  and  gaiters,  and 
drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  counter,  until  he 
was  attended  to.  When  he  answered  the  shop- 
boy's  question,  "  What  can  I  have  the  pleasure  of 
showing  vou  to-day,  sir?"  I  saw  Miss  Matilda 

Of  i/   ' 

start,  and  then  suddenly  sit  down  ;  and  instantly 
I  guessed  who  it  was.  She  had  made  some  in- 
quiry which  had  to  be  carried  round  to  the  other 
shop. 

"  Miss  Jenkyns  wants  the  black  sarcenet,  two- 
and-twopence  the  yard."  Mr.  Holbrook  caught 
the  name,  and  was  across  the  shop  in  two  strides. 

"  Matey,  —  Miss  Matilda,  —  Miss  Jenkyns  ! 
Bless  my  soul !  I  should  not  have  known  you. 


390       A   LOVE  AFFAIR  AT  CRANFORD. 

How  are  you  ?  how  are  you  ?  "  He  kept  shaking 
her  hand,  in  a  way  which  proved  the  warmth  of 
his  friendship ;  but  he  repeated  so  often,  as  if  to 
himself,  "  I  should  not  have  known  you  !  "  that 
any  sentimental  romance  I  might  be  inclined  to 
build  was  quite  done  away  with  by  his  manner. 

However,  he  kept  talking  to  us  all  the  time  we 
were  in  the  shop  ;  and  then  waving  the  shopman, 
with  the  unpurchased  gloves,  on  one  side,  with 
"  Another  time,  sir !  another  time  !  "  he  walked 
home  with  us.  I  am  happy  to  say  Miss  Matilda 
also  left  the  shop  in  an  equally  bewildered  state  ; 
not  having  purchased  either  green  or  red  silk. 
Mr.  Holbrook  was  evidently  full  witli  honest, 
loud-spoken  joy  at  meeting  his  old  love  again. 
He  touched  on  the  changes  that  had  taken  place  ; 
he  even  spoke  of  Miss  Jenkyns  as  "  Your  poor 
sister !  Well,  well  !  we  have  all  our  faults  "  ; 
and  bade  us  good  by  with  many  a  hope  that  he 
should  soon  see  Miss  Matey  again.  She  went 
straight  to  her  room,  and  never  came  back  till 
our  early  tea-time,  when  I  thought  she  looked  as 
if  she  had  been  crying. 

A  few  days  after,  a  note  came  from  Mr.  Hol- 
brook, asking  us,  —  impartially  asking  both  of  us, 
—  in  a  formal,  old-fashioned  style,  to  spend  a  day 
at  his  house,  —  a  long,  June  day,  —  for  it  was 
June  now.  He  named  that  he  had  also  invited 
his  cousin,  Miss  Pole ;  so  that  we  might  join  in  a 
fly,  which  could  be  put  up  at  his  house. 


A  LOVE  AFFAIR  AT  CR  AN  FORD. 


I  expected  Miss  Matey  to  jump  at  this  invita- 
tion ;  but,  no  !  Miss  Pole  and  I  had  the  greatest 
difficulty  in  persuading  her  to  go.  She  thought  it 
was  improper ;  and  was  even  half  annoyed  when 
we  utterly  ignored  the  idea  of  any  impropriety  in 
her  going  with  two  other  ladies  to  see  her  old 
lover.  Then  came  a  more  serious  difficulty.  She 
did  not  think  Deborah  would  have  liked  her  to  go. 
This  took  us  half  a  day's  good  hard  talking  to  get 
over ;  but,  at  the  first  sentence  of  relenting,  I 
seized  the  opportunity,  and  wrote  and  despatched 
an  acceptance  in  her  name,  —  fixing  day  and  hour, 
that  all  might  be  decided  and  done  with. 

The  next  morning  she  asked  me  if  I  would  go 
down  to  the  shop  with  her ;  and  there,  after  much 
hesitation,  we  chose  out  three  caps  to  be  sent  home 
and  tried  on,  that  the  most  becoming  might  be 
selected  to  take  with  us  on  Thursday. 

She  was  in  a  state  of  silent  agitation  all  the  way 
to  Woodley.  She  had  evidently  never  been  there 
before,  and  although  she  little  dreamt  I  knew 
anything  of  her  early  story,  I  could  perceive  she 
was  in  a  tremor  at  the  thought  of  seeino-  the  place 

O  c3  J. 

which  might  have  been  her  home,  and  round 
which  it  is  probable  that  many  of  her  innocent, 
girlish  imaginations  had  clustered.  It  was  a  long 
drive  there,  through  paved,  jolting  lanes.  Miss 
Matilda  sat  bolt  upright,  and  looked  wistfully  out 
of  the  windows,  as  we  drew  near  the  end  of  our 
journey.  The  aspect  of  the  country  was  quiet 


392       A  LOVE  AFFAIR  AT  CRANFORD. 

and  pastoral.  Woodley  stood  among  fields,  and 
there  was  an  old-fashioned  garden,  where  roses 
and  currant-bushes  touched  each  other,  and  where 
the  feathery  asparagus  formed  a  pretty  back- 
ground to  the  pinks  and  gilly-flowers.  There 
was  no  drive  up  to  the  door.  We  got  out  at  a 
little  gate,  and  walked  up  a  straight,  box-edged 
path. 

"  My  cousin  might  make  a  drive,  I  think,"  said 
Miss  Pole,  who  was  afraid  of  ear-ache,  and  had 
only  her  cap  on. 

"  I  think  it  is  very  pretty,"  said  Miss  Matey, 
with  a  soft  plaintiveness  in  her  voice,  and  almost 
in  a  whisper,  for  just  then  Mr.  Holbrook  ap- 
peared at  the  door,  rubbing  his  hands  in  the  very 
effervescence  of  hospitality.  He  looked  more  like 
my  idea  of  Don  Quixote  than  ever,  and  yet  the 
likeness  was  only  external.  His  respectable  house- 
keeper stood  modestly  at  the  door  to  bid  us  wel- 
come ;  and,  while  she  led  the  elder  ladies  up-stairs 
to  a  bed-room,  I  begged  to  look  about  the  garden. 
Mv  request  evidently  pleased  the  old  gentleman, 
who  took  me  all  round  the  place,  and  showed  me 
his  six-and-twenty  cows,  named  after  the  different 
letters  of  the  alphabet.  As  we  went  along,  he 
surprised  me  occasionally  by  repeating  apt  and 
beautiful  quotations  from  the  poets,  ranging  easily 
from  Shakespeare  and  George  Herbert,  to  those 
of  our  own  day.  He  did  this  as  naturally  as  if 
he  were  thinking  aloud ;  as  if  their  true  and  beau- 


A   LOVE  AFFAIR   AT  CRANFORD.       393 

tiful  words  were  the  best  expression  he  could  find 
for  what  he  was  thinking  or  feeling.  To  be  sure 
he  called  Byron  "  my  lord  Byrron,"  and  pro- 
nounced the  name  of  Goethe  strictly  in  accord- 
ance with  the  English  sound  of  the  letters. 

O 

Altoo-ether,  I  never  met  with    a    man,  before  or 

C3  *  ' 

since,  who  had  spent  so  long  a  life  in  a  secluded 
and  not  impressive  country,  with  ever-increasing 
delight  in  the  daily  and  yearly  change  of  season 
and  beauty. 

When  he  and  I  went  in,  we  found  that  dinner 
was  nearly  ready  in  the  kitchen ;  for  so  I  suppose 
the  room  ought  to  be  called,  as  there  were  oak 
dressers  and  cupboards  all  round,  all  over  by  the 
side  of  the  fireplace,  and  only  a  small  Turkey  car- 
pet in  the  middle  of  the  flag-floor.  The  room 
might  have  been  easily  made  into  a  handsome, 
dark-oak  dining-parlor,  by  removing  the  oven, 
and  a  few  other  appui'tenances  of  a  kitchen,  which 
were  evidently  never  used ;  the  real  cooking-place 
being  at  some  distance.  The  room  in  which  we 
were  expected  to  sit  was  a  stiffly  furnished,  ugly 
apartment ;  but  that  in  which  we  did  sit  was  what 
Mr.  Hoi  brook  called  the  counting-house,  where  he 
paid  his  laborers  their  weekly  wages,  at  a  great 
desk  near  the  door.  The  rest  of  the  pretty  sit- 
ting-room—  looking  into  the  orchard,  and  all 
covered  over  with  dancing  tree-shadows  —  was 
filled  with  books.  They  lay  on  the  ground,  they 
covered  the  walls,  they  strewed  the  «table.  He 
17* 


894       A    LOVE  AFFAIR   AT  C RAN  FORD. 

was  evidently  half  ashamed  and  half  proud  of  his 
extravagance  in  this  respect.  They  were  of  all 
kinds  ;  poetry,  and  wild,  weird  tales  prevailing. 
He  evidently  chose  his  books  in  accordance  with 
his  own  tastes,  not  because  such  and  such  were 
classical,  or  established  favorites. 

"  Ah !  "  he  said,  "  we  farmers  ought  not  to 
have  much  time  for  reading ;  yet  somehow  one 
can't  help  it." 

"  What  a  pretty  room  !  "  said  Miss  Matey,  sotto 
voce. 

"  What  a  pleasant  place ! "  said  I,  aloud,  al- 
most simultaneously.  ' 

"  Nay  !  if  you  like  it,"  replied  he  ;  "  but  can 
you  sit  on  these  great  black  leather  three-cornered 
chairs  ?  I  like  it  better  than  the  best  parlor ;  but 
I  thought  ladies  would  take  that  for  the  smarter 
place." 

It  was  the  smarter  place ;  but,  like  most  smart 
things,  not  at  all  pretty,  or  pleasant,  or  honie- 
Jike ;  so,  while  we  were  at  dinner,  the  servant-girl 
dusted  and  scrubbed  the  counting-house  chairs, 
and  we  sat  there  all  the  rest  of  the  day. 

We  had  pudding  before  meat,  and  I  thought 
Mr.  Holbrook  was  going  to  make  some  apology 
for  his  old-fashioned  ways ;  for  he  began,  >k  I 
don't  know  whether  you  like  new-fangled  ways." 

"  O,  not  at  all !  "  said  Miss  Matey. 

u  No  more  do  I,"  said  he.  "  My  housekeeper 
ivill  have  things  in  her  new  fashion  ;  or  else  I 


A   LOVE  AFFAIR   AT  CRANFORD.        395 

tell  her,  that  when  I  was  a  young  man,  we  used 
to  keep  strictly  to  my  father's  rule,  '  No  broth, 
no  ball;  no  ball,  no  beef;  and  always  began 
dinner  with  broth.  Then  we  had  suet  puddings, 
boiled  in  the  broth  with  the  beef;  and  then  the 
meat  itself.  If  we  did  not  sup  our  broth,  we 
had  no  ball,  which  we  liked  a  deal  better ;  and 
the  beef  came  last  of  all;  and  only  those  had  it 
who  had  done  justice  to  the  broth  and  the  ball. 
Now,  folks  begin  with  sweet  things,  and  turn  their 
dinners  topsy-turvy." 

When  the  ducks  and  green  peas  came,  we 
looked  at  each  other  in  dismay.  We  had  only 
two-pronged,  black-handled  forks.  It  is  true,  the 
steel  was  as  bright  as  silver ;  but,  what  were  we 

O  *  ' 

to  do?  Miss  Matey  picked  up  her  peas,  one  by 
one,  on  the  point  of  the  prongs.  Miss  Pole  sighed 
over  her  delicate  young  peas,  as  she  left  them  on 
one  side  of  her  plate  untastecl ;  for  they  would 
drop  between  her  prongs.  I  looked  at  my  host : 
the  peas  were  going  wholesale  into  his  capacious 
mouth,  shovelled  up  by  his  large  round-ended 
knife.  I  saw,  I  imitated,  I  survived  !  My  friends, 
in  spite  of  my  precedent,  could  not  muster  up 
com'age  enough  to  do  an  ungenteel  thing ;  and, 
if  Mr.  Holbrook  had  not  been  so  heartily  hungry, 
he  would  probably  have  seen  that  the  good  peas 
went  away  almost  untouched. 

After  dinner,  a  clay  pipe  was  brought  in,  and 
a  spittoon ;  and,  asking  us  to  retire  to  another 


396       A   LOVE  AFFAIR  AT  CRANFORD. 

room,  where  he  would  soon  join  us,  if  we  disliked 
tobacco-smoke,  he  presented  his  pipe  to  Miss 
Matey,  and  requested  her  to  fill  the  bowl.  This 
was  a  compliment  to  a  lady  in  his  youth  ;  but  it 
was  rather  inappropriate  to  propose  it  as  an  honor 
to  Miss  Matey,  who  had  been  trained  by  her  sister 
to  hold  smoking  of  every  kind  in  utter  abhor- 
rence. But  if  it  was  a  shock  to  her  refinement, 
it  was  also  a  gratification  to  her  feelings,  to  be 
thus  selected ;  so  she  daintly  stuffed  the  strong 
tobacco  into  the  pipe  ;  and  then  we  withdrew. 

"  It  is  very  pleasant  dining  with  a  bachelor," 
said  Miss  Matey,  softly,  as  we  settled  ourselves 
in  the  counting-house ;  "  I  only  hope  it  is  not 
improper;  so  many  pleasant  things  are!" 

"  What  a  number  of  books  he  has  !  "  said  Miss 
Pole,  looking  round  the  room.  "  And  how  dusty 
they  are ! " 

"  I  think  it  must  be  like  one  of  the  great  Dr. 
Johnson's  rooms,"  said  Miss  Matey.  "What  a 
superior  man  your  cousin  must  be !  " 

"  Yes  !  "  said  Miss  Pole  ;  "  he  's  a  great  reader ; 
but  I  am  afraid  he  has  got  into  very  uncouth 
habits  with  living  alone." 

"  Oh  !  uncouth  is  too  hard  a  word.  I  should 
call  him  eccentric :  very  clever  people  always 
are  !  "  replied  Miss  Matey. 

When  Mr.  Holbrook  returned,  he  proposed  a 
walk  in  the  fields ;  but  the  two  elder  ladies  were 
afraid  of  damp  and  dirt,  and  had  only  very 


A   LOVE  AFFAIR   AT  CRANFORD.       397 

unbecoming  calashes  to  put  on  over  their  caps  ; 
so  they  declined,  and  I  was  again  his  companion 
in  a  turn  which  he  said  he  was  obliged  to  take, 
to  see  after  his  niece.  He  strode  alono-,  either 

O  * 

wholly  forgetting  my  existence,  or  soothed  into 
silence  by  his  pipe ;  and  yet  it  was  not  silence 
exactly.  He  walked  before  me,  with  a  stooping 
gait,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  and  as  some 
tree,  or  cloud,  or  glimpse  at  distant  upland  pas- 
tures, struck  him,  he  quoted  poetry  to  himself; 
saying  it  out  loud,  in  a  grand,  sonorous  voice,  with 
just  the  emphasis  that  true  feeling  and  appre- 
ciation give.  We  came  upon  an  old  cedar-tree, 
which  stood  at  one  end  of  the  house  ; 

'  More  black  than  ash-buds  in  the  front  of  March, 
A  cedar  spread  his  dark -green  layers  of  shade.' 

Capital  term,   '  layers  !  '     Wonderful  man  !  " 

I  did  not  know  whether  he  was  speaking  to 
me  or  not ;  but  I  put  in  an  assenting  "  Wonder- 
ful," although  I  knew  nothing  about  it ;  just  be- 
cause I  was  tired  of  being  forgotten,  and  of  being 
consequently  silent. 

He  turned  sharp  round.  "  Ay  !  you  may  say 
*  wonderful.'  Why,  when  I  saw  the  review  of 
his  poems  in  '  Blackwood,'  I  set  off  within  an 
hour,  and  walked  seven  miles  to  Misselton  (for 
the  horses  were  not  in  the  way),  and  ordered 
them.  Now,  what  color  are  ash-buds  in  March  ?  " 
Is  the  man  going  mad?  thought  I.  He  is  very 
like  Don  Quixote. 


398       A   LOVE  AFFAIR   AT  CRANFORD. 

"  What  color  are  they,  I  say  ?  "  repeated  he, 
vehemently. 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  sir,"  said  I,  with 
the  meekness  of  ignorance. 

"  I  knew  you  did  n't.  No  more  did  I,  an  old 
fool  that  I  am  !  till  this  young  man  comes  and 
tells  me.  Black  as  ash-buds  in  March.  And 
I  've  lived  all  my  life  in  the  country  ;  more 
shame  for  me  not  to  know.  Black  ;  they  are  jet- 
black,  madam."  And  he  went  off  again,  swing- 
ing along  to  the  music  of  some  rhyme  he  had 
got  hold  of. 

When  we  came  home,  nothing  would  serve  him 
but  that  he  must  read  us  the  poems  he  had  been 
speaking  of;  and  Miss  Pole  encouraged  him  in  his 
proposal,  I  thought,  because  she  wished  me  to  hear 
his  beautiful  reading,  of  which  she  had  boasted  ; 
but  she  afterwards  said  it  was  because  she  had  got 
to  a  difficult  part  of  crochet,  and  wanted  to  count 
her  stitches  without  havino-  to  talk.  Whatever  he 

~ 

had  proposed  would  have  been  right  to  Miss 
Matey,  although  she  did  fall  sound  asleep  within 
five  minutes  after  he  began  a  long  poem,  called 
"  Locksley  Hall,"  and  had  a  comfortable  nap,  un- 
observed, till  he  ended,  when  the  cessation  of  his 
voice  wakened  her  up,  and  she  said,  feeling  that 
something  was  expected,  and  that  Miss  Pole  was 
counting,  "  What  a  pretty  book  !  " 

"  Pretty,  madam  ?  It 's  beautiful !  Pretty,  in- 
deed !" 


A   LOVE  AFFAIR  AT  CRANFORD.       399 

"  O  yes,  I  meant  beautiful !  "  said  she,  fluttered 
at  his  disapproval  of  her  word.  "  It  is  so  like  that 
beautiful  poem  of  Dr.  Johnson's  my  sister  used  to 
read  !  —  I  forget  the  name  of  it ;  what  was  it,  my 
dear?  "  turning  to  me. 

"  Which  do  you  mean,  ma'am  ?  What  was  it 
about  ?  " 

"  I  don't  remember  what  it  was  about,  and  I  've 
quite  forgotten  what  the  name  of  it  was  ;  but  it 
Avas  written  by  Dr.  Johnson,  and  Avas  very  beau- 
tiful, and  very  like  Avhat  Mr.  Holbrook  has  just 
been  reading." 

"  I  don't  remember  it,"  said  he,  reflectively  ; 
*'  but  I  don't  know  Dr.  Johnson's  poems  well.  I 
must  read  them." 

As  we  were  getting  into  the  fly  to  return^  I 
heard  Mr.  Holbrook  say  he  should  call  on  the 
ladies  soon,  and  inquire  how  they  got  home  ;  and 
this  evidently  pleased  and  fluttered  Miss  Matey  at 
the  time  he  said  it ;  but  after  we  had  lost  sight  of 
the  old  house  among  the  trees,  her  sentiments 
towards  the  master  of  it  Avere  gradually  absorbed 
into  a  distressing  wonder  as  to  Avhether  Martha 
had  broken  her  \vord,  and  seized  on  the  opportu- 
nity of  her  mistress's  absence  to  haA'e  a  "  follow- 
er." Martha  looked  good  and  steady  and  com- 
posed enough,  as  she  came  to  help  us  out ;  she 
Avas  always  careful  of  Miss  Matey,  and  to-night 
she  made  use  of  this  unlucky  speech :  "  Eh, 
dear  ma'am,  to  think  of  A'our  goino;  out  in  an 

V 


400       A   LOVE  AFFAIR   AT  CRANFORD. 
evening  in  such  a  thin  shawl !     It  is   no   better 

~ 

than  muslin.  At  your  age,  ma'am,  you  should  be 
careful." 

"  My  age !  "  said  Miss  Matey,  almost  speaking 
crossly,  for  her,  for  she  was  usually  gentle  ;  "  my 
age  !  Why,  how  old  do  you  think  I  am,  that  you 
talk  about  my  age  ?  " 

"  Well,  ma'am,  I  should  say  you  were  not  far 
short  of  sixty  ;  but  folks'  looks  is  often  against 
them,  and  I  'm  sure  I  meant  no  harm." 

"  Martha,  I  'm  not  yet  fifty-two  !  "  said  Miss 
Matey,  with  grave  emphasis  ;  for  probably  the 
remembrance  of  her  youth  had  come  veiy  vividly 
before  her  this  day,  and  she  was  annoyed  at  find- 
ing that  golden  time  so  far  away  in  the  past. 

But  she  never  spoke  of  any  former  and  more 
intimate  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Holbrook.  She 
had  probably  met  with  so  little  sympathy  in  her 
early  love,  that  she  had  shut  it  up  close  in  her 
heart ;  and  it  was  only  by  a  sort  of  watching,  which 
I  could  hardly  avoid  since  Miss  Pole's  confidence, 
that  I  saw  how  faithful  her  poor  heart  had  been  in 
its  sorrows  and  its  silence. 

She  o;a.ve  me  some   o;ood  reason  for  wearing  her 

o  ~  o 

best  cap  every  day,  and  sat  near  the  window,  in 
spite  of  her  rheumatism,  in  order  to  see,  without 
bein£f  seen,  down  into  the  street. 

~  ' 

He  came.  He  put  his  open  palms  upon  his 
knees,  which  were  far  apart,  as  he  sat  with  his 
head  bent  down,  whistling,  after  we  had  replied  to 


A   LOVE  AFFAIR  AT  CRANFORD.       401 

his  inquiries  about  our  safe  return.  Suddenly  he 
jumped  up. 

u  Well,  madam,  have  you  any  commands  for 
Paris  ?  I  'm  going  there  in  a  week  or  two." 

"  To  Paris  !  "  we  both  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  I  've  never  been  there,  and 
always  had  a  wish  to  go  ;  and  I  think  if  I  don't 
go  soon  I  may  n't  go  at  all.  So  as  soon  as  the 
hay  is  got  in  I  shall  go,  before  harvest-time." 

We  were  so  much  astonished  that  we  had  no 
commissions. 

Just  as  he  was  going  out  of  the  room,  he  turned 
back,  with  his  favorite  exclamation,  "  Bless  my 
soul,  madam  !  but  I  nearly  forgot  half  my  errand. 
Here  are  the  poems  for  you,  you  admired  so  much 
the  other  evening  at  my  house."  He  tugged  away 
at  a  parcel  in  his  coat  pocket.  "  Good  by,  miss  !  " 
said  he ;  "  good  by,  Matey  !  take  care  of  your- 
self." And  he  was  gone.  But  he  had  given  her 
a  book,  and  he  had  called  her  Matey,  just  as  he 
used  to  do  thirty  years  ago. 

"  I  wish  he  would  not  go  to  Paris,"  said  Miss 
Matilda,  anxiously.  "•  I  don't  believe  frogs  will 
agree  with  him.  He  used  to  have  to  be  very  care- 
ful what  he  ate,  which  was  curious  in  so  strong- 
looking  a  young  man." 

Soon  after  this  I  took  my  leave,  giving  many  an 
injunction  to  Martha  to  look  after  her  mistress, 
and  to  let  me  know  if  she  thought  that  Miss  Ma- 

O 

tilda  was  not  so  well ;  in  which  case  I  would  volun- 

z 


402       A   LOVE  AFFAIR  AT  CRANFORD. 

teer  a  visit  to  my  old  friend,  without  noticing 
Martha's  intelligence  to  her. 

Accordingly,  I  received  a  line  or  two  from  Mar- 
tha every  now  and  then  ;  and  about  November  I 
had  a  note  to  say  her  mistress  was  "  very  low  and 
sadly  off  her  food  "  ;  and  the  account  made  me  so 
uneasy,  that,  although  Martha  did  not  decidedly 
summon  me,  I  packed  up  my  things  and  went. 

I  received  a  warm  welcome,  in  spite  of  the  little 
flurry  produced  by  my  impromptu  visit,  for  I  had 
only  been  able  to  give  a  day's  notice.  Miss 
Matilda  looked  miserably  ill,  and  I  prepared  to 
comfort  and  cosset  her. 

I  went  down  to  have  a  private  talk  with  Martha. 

"  How  long  has  your  mistress  been  so  poorly  ?  " 
I  asked,  as  I  stood  by  the  kitchen  fire. 

"  Well,  I  think  it 's  better  than  a  fortnight  ;  it 
is,  I  know.  It  was  one  Tuesday,  after  Miss  Pole 
had  been  here,  that  she  went  into  this  moping  way. 
I  thought  she  was  tired,  and  it  would  go  off  with 
a  night's  rest  ;  but  no !  she  has  gone  on  and  on 
ever  since,  till  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  write  to 
you,  ma'am." 

"  You  did  quite  right,  Martha.  It  is  a  comfort 
to  think  she  has  so  faithful  a  servant  about  her. 
And  I  hope  you  find  your  place  comfortable  ?  " 

"  Well,  ma'am,  missus  is  very  kind,  and  there  's 
plenty  to  eat  and  drink,  and  no  more  work  but 
what  I  can  do  easily  ;  but  -  Martha  hesitated. 

"  But  what,  Martha  ?  " 


A   LOVE  AFFAIR  AT  CRANFORD.       403 

"  Why,  it  seems  so  hard  of  missus  not  to  let  me 
have  any  followers.  There  's  such  lots  of  young 
fellows  in  the  town,  and  many  a  one  has  as  much 
as  offered  to  keep  company  with  me,  and  I  may 
never  be  in  such  a  likely  place  again,  and  it 's  like 
wasting  an  opportunity.  Many  a  girl  as  I  know 
would  have  'em  unbeknowst  to  missus  ;  but  I  've 
given  my  word,  and  I  '11  stick  to  it  ;  or  else  this  is 
just  the  house  for  missus  never  to  be  the  wiser  if 
they  did  come.  It 's  such  a  capable  kitchen,  — 
there 's  such  good  dark  corners  in  it,  —  I  'd  be 
bound  to  hide  any  one.  I  counted  up  last  Sunday 
night,  —  for  I  '11  not  deny  I  was  crying  because  I 
had  to  shut  the  door  in  Jem  Hearn's  face  ;  and 
he  's  a  steady  young  man,  fit  for  any  girl  ;  only  I 
had  given  missus  my  word."  Martha  was  all  but 
crying  again  ;  and  I  had  little  comfort  to  give  her, 
for  I  knew,  from  old  experience,  the  horror  with 
which  both  the  Miss  Jenkynses  looked  upon  "  fol- 
lowers "  ;  and  in  Miss  Matey 's  present  nervous 
state  this  dread  was  not  like  to  be  lessened. 

I  went  to  see  Miss  Pole  the  next  day,  and  took 
her  completely  by  surprise,  for  she  had  not  been 
to  see  Miss  Matilda  for  two  days. 

"  And  now  I  must  go  back  with  you,  my  dear," 
said  she  ;  "  for  I  promised  to  let  her  know  how 
Thomas  Holbrook  went  on  ;  and  I  'm  sorry  to  say 
his  housekeeper  has  sent  me  word  to-day  that  he 
has  n't  long  to  live.  Poor  Thomas  !  That  jour- 
ney to  Paris  was  quite  too  much  for  him.  His 


404       A   LOVE  AFFAIR  AT  CRANFORD. 

housekeeper  says  he  has  hardly  ever  been  round 
his  fields  since,  but  just  sits  with  his  hands  on  his 
knees  in  the  counting-house,  not  reading,  or  any- 
thing, but  only  saying,  what  a  wonderful  city 
Paris  was  !  Paris  has  much  to  answer  for,  if  it 's 
killed  my  cousin  Thomas,  for  a  better  man  never 
lived." 

"  Does  Miss  Matilda  know  of  his  illness  ?  "  asked 
I,  a  new  light  as  to  the  cause  of  her  indisposition 
dawning  upon  me. 

"  Dear !  to  be  sure,  yes  !  Has  she  not  told 
you  ?  I  let  her  know  a  fortnight  ago,  or  more, 
when  first  I  heard  of  it.  How  odd,  she  shouldn't 
have  told  you  !  " 

Not  at  all,  I  thought ;  but  I  did  not  say  any- 
thing. I  felt  almost  guilty  of  having  spied  too 
curiously  into  that  tender  heart ;  and  I  was  not 
going  to  speak  of  its  secrets,  —  hidden,  Miss  Matey 
believed,  from  all  the  world.  I  ushered  Miss  Pole 
into  Miss  Matilda's  drawing-room  ;  and  then  left 
them  alone.  But  I  was  not  surprised  when  Martha 
came  to  my  bed-room  door,  to  ask  me  to  go  down 
to  dinner  alone,  for  that  missus  had  one  of  her  bad 
headaches.  She  came  into  the  drawing-room  at 
tea-time  ;  but  it  was  evidently  an  effort  for  her. 
As  if  to  make  up  for  some  reproachful  feeling 
against  her  late  sister,  Miss  Jenkyns,  which  had 
been  troubling  her  all  the  afternoon,  and  for  which 
she  now  felt  penitent,  she  kept  telling  me  how 
good  and  how  clever  Deborah  was  in  her  youth  ; 


A   LOVE  AFFAIR   AT  CRANFORD.       405 

how  she  used  to  settle  what  gowns  they  were  to 
•wear  at  all  the  parties  ;  (faint,  ghostly  ideas  of 
dim  parties  far  away  in  the  distance,  when  Miss 
Matey  and  Miss  Pole  were  young !)  and  how 
Deborah  and  her  mother  had  started  the  benefit 
society  for  the  poor,  and  taught  girls  cooking  and 
•plain  sewing;  and  how  Deborah  had  danced  with 
a  lord  ;  and  how  she  used  to  visit  at  Sir  Peter 
Arley's,  and  try  to  remodel  the  quiet  rectory 
establishment  on  the  plans  of  Arley  Hall,  where 
they  kept  thirty  servants  ;  and  how  she  had  nursed 
Miss  Matey  through  a  long,  long  illness,  of  which 
I  had  never  heard  before,  but  which  I  now  dated, 
in  my  own  mind,  as  following  the  dismissal  of  the 
suit  of  Mr.  Holbrook.  So  we  talked  softly  and 
quietly  of  old  times,  through  the  long  November 
evening. 

The  next  day,  Miss  Pole  brought  us  word  that 
Mr.  Holbrook  was  dead.  Miss  Matey  heard  the 
news  in  silence.  In  fact,  from  the  account  on  the 
previous  day,  it  was  only  what  we  had  to  expect. 
Miss  Pole  kept  calling  upon  us  for  some  expres- 
sions of  regret,  by  asking  if  it  was  not  sad  that  he 
was  gone,  and  saying,  — 

"  To  think  of  that  pleasant  day  last  June,  when 
he  seemed  so  well  !  And  he  might  have  lived  this 
dozen  years,  if  he  had  not  gone  to  that  wicked 
Paris,  where  they  are  always  having  Revolu- 
tions." 

She  paused  for  some  demonstration  on  our  part. 


406       A   LOVE  AFFAIR  AT  CRANFORD. 

I  saw  Miss  Matey  could  not  speak,  she  was  trem- 
bling so  nervously,  so  I  said  what  I  really  felt ; 
and  after  a  call  of  some  duration,  —  all  the  time  of 
which  I  have  no  doubt  Miss  Pole  thought  Miss 
Matey  received  the  news  very  calmly,  —  our  visitor 
took  her  leave.  But  the  effort  at  self-control  Miss 
Matey  had  made  to  conceal  her  feelings,  —  a  con- 
cealment she  practised  even  with  me  ;  for  she  has 
never  alluded  to  Mr.  Holbrook  again,  although 
the  book  he  gave  her  lies  with  her  Bible  on  the 
little  table  by  her  bedside.  She  did  not  think  I 
heard  her  when  she  asked  the  little  milliner  of 
Cranford  to  make  her  caps  something  like  the  Hon. 
Mrs.  Jamieson's  ;  or  that  I  noticed  the  reply,  — 

"  But  she  wears  widows'  caps,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  O,  I  only  meant  something  in  that  style  ; 
not  widows',  of  course,  but  rather  like  Mrs. 
Jamieson's." 

This  effort  at  concealment  was  the  beginning  of 
the  tremulous  motion  of  head  and  hands,  which  I 
have  seen  ever  since  in  Miss  Matey. 

The  evening  of  the  day  on  which  we  heard  of 
Mr.  Holbrook's  death,  Miss  Matilda  was  very 
silent  and  thoughtful  ;  after  prayers,  she  called 
Martha  back,  and  then  she  stood  uncertain  what, 
to  say. 

"  Martha  !  "  she  said  at  last ;  "  you  are  young," 
—  and  then  she  made  so  long  a  pause,  that  Martha, 
to  remind  her  of  her  half-finished  sentence,  dropped 
a  courtesy,  and  said  :  "  Yes,  please,  ma'am  ;  t\vo- 
and-t\venty  last  third  October,  please,  ma'am." 


A   LOVE  AFFAIR  AT  C RAN  FORD.       407 

"  And  perhaps,  Martha,  you  may  some  time  meet 
with  a  young  man  you  like,  and  who  likes  you.  I 
did  say  you  were  not  to  have  followers  ;  but  if  you 
meet  witli  such  a  young  man,  and  tell  me,  and  I 
find  he  is  respectable,  I  have  no  objection  to  his 
coming  to  see  you  once  a  week.  God  forbid  !  " 
said  she,  in  a  low  voice,  "  that  I  should  grieve 
any  young  hearts." 

She  spoke  as  if  she  were  providing  for  some 
distant  contingency,  and  was  rather  startled  when 
Martha  made  her  ready,  eager  answer  :  "  Please, 
ma'am,  there 's  Jem  Hearn,  and  he  's  a  joiner, 
making  three-and-sixpence  a  day,  and  six  foot  one 
in  his  stocking-feet,  please,  ma'am  ;  and  if  you  '11 
ask  about  him  to-morrow  morning,  every  one  will 
give  him  a  character  for,  steadiness  ;  and  he  '11  be 
glad  enough  to  come  to-morrow  night,  I  '11  be 
bound." 

Though  Miss  Matey  was  startled,  she  submitted 
to  Fate  and  Love. 


GOD  is  our  Father.  Heaven  is  his  high  throne, 
and  this  earth  is  his  footstool ;  and  while  we  sit 
around  and  meditate,  or  pray,  one  by  one,  as  we 
fall  asleep,  He  lifts  us  into  his  bosom,  and  our 
awaking  is  inside  the  gates  of  an  everlasting 
world.  —  MOUNTFORD. 


TO    MY    WIFE. 


ON    THE    ANNIVERSARY     OF    OUR     WEDDING. 

NOW,  Time  and  I,  near  fifty  years, 
Have  managed  kindly  to  agree  ; 
Pleased  with  the  friendship  he  appears, 
And  means  that  all  the  world  shall  see. 

For,  with  soft  touch  about  my  eyes, 
The  frosty,  kindly,  jealous  friend 

His  drawing-pencil  deftly  plies, 

And  mars  the  face  he  thinks  to  mend. 

Nor  am  I  called  alone  to  wear 

Old  Time,  "His  mark,"  in  deepening  trace  ; 
That  "  twain  are  one,"  this  limner  sere 

Will  print  in  lines  on  either  face. 

'T  is  not,  perhaps,  a  gallant  thing 

On  such  a  morning  to  be  told, 
But  Time  doth  yearly  witness  bring, 

That  —  Bless  you  !  we  are  growing  old. 


TO  MY  WIFE.  409 

Together  we  have  lived  and  loved, 

Together  passed  through  smiles  and  tears, 

And  life's  all-varying  lessons  proved 
Through  many  constant  married  years. 

And  there  is  joy  Time  cannot  reach, 
A  youth  o'er  which  no  power  he  hath, 

If  we  cling  closer,  each  to  each, 

And  each  to  God,  in  hope  and  faith. 

ANONYMOUS. 


IN  the  summer  evenings,  when  the  wind  blew  low, 
And  the  skies  were  radiant  with  the  sunset  glow, 
Thou  and  I  were  happy,  long,  long  years  ago ! 
Love,  the  young  and  hopeful,  hovered  o'er  us  twain, 
Filled  us  with  sad  pleasure  and  delicious  pain, 
In  the  summer  evenings,  wandering  in  the  lane. 

In  the  winter  evenings,  when  the  wild  winds  roar, 
Blustering  in  the  chimney,  piping  at  the  door, 
Thou  and  I  are  happy,  as  in  days  of  yore. 
Love  still  hovers  o'er  us,  robed  in  white  attire, 
Drawing  heavenly  music  from  an  earthly  lyre, 
In  the  winter  evenings,  sitting  by  the  fire. 

ANONYMOUS. 


18 


THE  EVERGREEN  OF  OUR  FEELINGS. 


EXTRACTS    FROM    THE   GERMAN    OF   J.    P.   RICHTER. 


i  OPPOSE,  as  I  would  every  useless 
fear  in  men,  the  lamentation  that  our 
feelings  grow  old  with  the  lapse  of 
years.  It  is  the  narrow  heart  alone 
which  does  not  grow  ;  the  wide  one  becomes 
larger.  Years  shrivel  the  one,  but  they  expand 
the  other.  Man  often  mistakes  concerning  the 
glowing  depths  of  his  feelings  ;  forgetting  that  they 
may  be  present  in  all  their  energy,  though  in  a 
state  of  repose.  In  the  wear  and  tear  of  daily 
life,  amid  the  care  of  providing  support,  per- 
chance under  misdemeanors,  in  comparing  one 
child  with  another,  or  in  daily  absences,  thou 
mayest  not  be  conscious  of  the  fervent  affection 
smouldering  under  the  ashes  of  every-day  life, 
which  would  at  once  blaze  forth  into  a  flame,  if 
thy  child  were  suffering  innocently,  or  condemned 
to  die.  Thy  love  was  already  there,  prior  to  the 
suffering  of  thy  child  and  thyself.  It  is  the  same 


THE  EVERGREEN  OF  OUR  FEELINGS.  4H 

in  wedlock  and  friendship.  In  the  familiarity  of 
daily  presence,  the  heart  beats  and  glows  silently  ; 
but  in  the  hours  of  meeting  and  parting,  the 
beautiful  radiance  of  a  long-nurtured  flame  re- 
veals itself.  It  is  •  on  such  occasions  that  man 
always  most  pleases  me.  I  am  then  reminded  of 
the  glaciers,  which  beam  forth  in  rosy-red  trans- 
parency only  at  the  rising  and  setting  of  the  sun, 
while  throughout  the  day  they  look  gray  and 
dark. 

A  golden  mine  of  affection,  of  which  the  small- 
est glimmer  is  scarcely  visible,  lies  buried  in  the 
breast  until  some  magic  word  reveals  it,  and  then 
man  discovers  his  ancient  treasure.  To  me,  it 
is  a  delightful  thought  that,  during  the  familiarity 
of  constant  proximity,  the  heart  gathers  up  in 
silence  the  nutriment  of  love,  as  the  diamond, 
even  beneath  water,  imbibes  the  light  it  emits. 
Time,  which  deadens  hatred,  secretly  strength- 
ens love  ;  and  in  the  hour  of  threatened  separa- 
tion its  growth  is  manifested  at  once  in  radiant 
brightness. 

Another  reason  why  man  fancies  himself  chilled 
by  old  age,  is  that  he  can  then  feel  interested 
only  in  higher  objects  than  those  which  once  ex- 
cited him.  The  lover  of  nature,  the  preacher, 
the  poet,  the  actor,  or  the  musician,  may,  in  de- 
clining years,  find  themselves  slightly  affected  by 
what  delighted  them  in  youth ;  but  this  need 
produce  no  fear  that  time  will  mar  their  sensi- 


412   THE  EVERGREEN  OF  OUR  FEELINGS. 

bility  to  nature,  art,  and  love.  Thou,  as  well  as 
I,  may  indeed  weep  less  frequently  than  formerly, 
at  the  theatre  or  at  concerts ;  but  give  us  a  truly 
excellent  piece,  and  we  cannot  suppress  the  emo- 
tion it  excites.  Youth  is  like  unbleached  wax, 
which  melts  under  feeble  sun-beams,  while  that 
which  has  been  whitened  is  scarcely  warmed  by 
them.  The*  mature  or  aged  man  avoids  those 
tears  which  youth  invites  ;  because  in  him  they 
flow  too  hot,  and  dry  too  slowly. 

Select  a  man  of  my  age,  and  of  my  heart,  with 
my  life-long  want  of  highland  scenery,  and  con- 
duct him  to  the  valley  of  the  Rhine  !  Bring  him 
to  that  long,  attractive,  sea-like  river,  flowing 
between  vine-clad  hills  on  either  side,  as  between 
two  regions  of  enchantment,  reflecting  only  scenes 
of  pleasure,  creating  islands  for  the  sake  of  clasp- 
ing them  in  its  arms ;  let  also  a  reflection  of  the 
setting  sun  glow  upon  its  waters  ;  and  surely 
youth  would  again  be  mirrored  in  the  old  man, 
and  that  still  ocean  of  infinity,  which  in  the  true 
and  highest  heaven  permits  us  to  look  down. 

Memory,  wit,  fancy,  acuteness,  cannot  grow 
young  again  in  old  age  ;  but  the  heart  can.  In 
order  to  be  convinced  of  this,  we  need  only 
remember  how  the  hearts  of  poets  have  glowed  in 
the  autumn  and  winter  seasons  of  life.  He  who 
in  old  age  can  do  without  love,  never  in  his  youth 
possessed  the  right  sort,  over  which  years  have  no 
power.  During  winter,  it  is  the  withered  branch- 


THE  EVERGREEN  OF  OUR  FEELINGS.  413 

es,  not  the  living  germs,  that  become  encrusted 
with  ice.  The  loving  heart  will  indeed  often 
bashfully  conceal  a  portion  of  its  warmth  behind 
children  and  grandchildren ;  so  that  last  love  is 
perhaps  as  coy  as  the  first.  But  if  an  aged  eye, 
full  of  soul,  is  upraised,  gleaming  with  memories 
of  its  spring-time,  is  there  anything  in  that  to  ex- 
cite ridicule  ?  Even  if  it  were  silently  moistened, 
partly  through  gladness,  and  partly  through  a 
feeling  of  the  past,  would  it  not  be  excusable  ? 
Might  not  an  aged  hand  presume  to  press  a  young 
hand,  merely  to  signify  thereby,  I,  too,  was  once 
in  Arcadia,  and  within  me  Arcadia  still  remains  ? 
In  the  better  sort  of  men  love  is  an  interior  senti- 
ment, born  in  the  soul ;  why  should  it  not  con- 
tinue with  the  soul  to  the  end  ?  It  is  a  part  of 
the  attraction  of  tender  and  elevated  love  that  its 
consecrated  hours  leave  in  the  heart  a  gentle,  con- 
tinuous, distinct  influence ;  just  as,  sometimes, 
upon  a  heavenly  spring-evening,  fragrance,  ex- 
haled from  warm  blossoms  in  the  surrounding 
country  penetrates  every  street  of  a  city  that  has 
no  gardens. 

~ 

I  would  exhort  men  to  spare  every  true  affec- 
tion,  and  not   to  ridicule    the  overflowings   of  a 

*  O 

happy  heart  with  more  license  than  they  would 
the  effusions  of  a  sorrowing  one.  For  the  youth 
of  the  soul  is  everlasting,  and  eternity  is  youth. 


OUR    SECRET    DRAWER. 


THERE  is  a  secret  drawer  in  every  heart, 
Wherein  we  lay  our  treasures,  one  by  one  ; 
Each  dear  remembrance  of  the  buried  past, 
Each  cherished  relic  of  the  time  that 's  gone. 

The  old  delights  of  childhood,  long  ago  ; 

The  things  we  loved  because  we  knew  them  best ; 
The  first  discovered  primrose  in  our  path  ; 

The  cuckoo's  earliest  note  ;   the  robin's  nest ; 

The  merry  haymakings  around  our  home  ; 

Our  rambles  in  the  summer  woods  and  lanes  ; 
The  story  told  beside  the  winter  fire, 

While  the  wind  moaned  across  the  window  panes  ; 

The  golden  dreams  we  dreamt  in  after  years, 
Those  magic  visions  of  our  young  romance  ; 

The  sunny  nooks,  the  fountains  and  the  flowers, 
Gilding  the  fairy  landscape  of  our  trance  ; 


OUR   SECRET  DRAWER.  415 

The  link  which  bound  us,  later  still,  to  one 

Who  fills  a  corner  in  our  life  to-day, 
Without  whose  love  we  dare  not  dream  how  dark 

The  rest  would  seem,  if  it  were  gone  away ; 

The  song  that  thrilled  our  souls  with  very  joy ; 

The  gentle  word  that  unexpected  came  ; 
The  gift  we  prized  because  the  thought  was  kind ; 

The  thousand,  thousand  things  that  have  no  name ; 

All  these,  in  some  far  hidden  corner  lie, 
Within  the  mystery  of  that  secret  drawer, 

Whose  magic  springs  though  stranger  hands  may  touch, 
Yet  none  may  gaze  upon  its  guarded  store. 

ANONYMOUS. 


"  How  seldom,  friend,  a  great,  good  man  inherits 
Honor,  or  wealth,  with  all  his  worth  and  pains." 
"  For  shame,  dear  friend,  renounce  this  canting  strain. 
What  wouldst  thou  that  the  great,  good  man  obtain  ? 
Place,  title,  salary,  —  a  gilded  chain  ? 
Or  throne  on  corpses  which  his  sword  has  slain  ? 
Goodness  and  greatness  are  not  means,  but  ends. 
Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always  friends, 
The  great,  good  man  ?     Three  treasures,  love,  and  light, 
And  calm  thoughts,  regular  as  infant's  breath  ; 
And  three  true  friends,  more  sure  than  day  and  night,  — 
Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  angel  Death." 

COLERIDGE. 


THE   GOLDEN   WEDDING. 


The  German  custom  of  observing  a  festival  called  the  Silver 
Wedding,  on  the  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  marriage,  and  a 
Golden  Wedding  on  the  fiftieth  anniversary,  have  now  become 
familiar  to  us  by  their  frequent  observance  in  this  country.  The 
following  description  of  such  an  anniversary  in  Sweden  is  from 
the  graceful  pen  of  Fredrika  Bremer,  in  her  work  entitled  "  The 
Neighbors." 

INHERE  was  a  patriarch  and  wife,  and 
only  to  see  that  ancient,  venerable 
couple  made  the  heart  rejoice.  Tran- 
quillity was  upon  their  brows,  cheer- 
ful wisdom  on  their  lips,  and  in  their  glance  one 
read  love  and  peace.  For  above  half  a  century 
this  ancient  couple  have  inhabited  the  same  house 
and  the  same  rooms.  There  they  were  married, 
and  there  they  are  soon  to  celebrate  their  golden 
nuptials.  The  rooms  are  unchanged,  the  furni- 
ture the  same  it  has  been  for  fifty  years  ;  but 
everything  is  clean,  comfortable,  and  friendly,  as 
in  a  one-year-old  dwelling,  though  much  more 
simple  than  the  houses  of  our  time.  I  know  not 


THE   GOLDEN   WEDDING.  417 

what  spirit  of  peace  and  grace  it  is  which  breathes 
upon  me  in  this  house  !  Ah  !  in  this  house  fifty 
years  have  passed  as  a  beautiful  day.  Here  a  vir- 
tuous couple  have  lived,  loved,  and  worked  to- 
gether. Many  a  pure  joy  has  blossomed  here  ; 
and  when  sorrow  came,  it  was  not  bitter,  for  the 
fear  of  God  and  mutual  love  illuminated  the  dark 
clouds.  Hence  has  emanated  many  a  noble  deed, 
and  many  a  beneficent  influence.  Happy  children 
grew  up.  They  gathered  strength  from  the  exam- 
ple of  their  parents,  went  out  into  the  world,  built 
for  themselves  houses,  and  were  good  and  fortu- 
nate. Often  do  they  return  to  the  parental  home, 
to  bless  and  to  be  blessed. 

A  long  life  of  integrity,  industry,  and  benefi- 
cence has  impressed  itself  on  the  father's  expan- 
sive forehead,  and  on  his  frank,  benevolent  deport- 
ment. His  figure  is  yet  firm,  and  his  rait  steady. 

»/  •/ 

The  lofty  crown  is  bald,  but  the  venerable  head  is 
surrounded  by  silver-white  locks,  like  a  garland. 
No  one  in  the  city  sees  this  head  without  bowing 
in  friendly  and  reverential  greeting.  The  whole 
country,  as  well  as  the  city,  loves  him  as  their 
benefactor,  and  venerates  him  as  their  patriarch. 
He  has  created  his  own  fortune,  and  sacrificed 
much  for  the  public  good  ;  and  notwithstanding- 
much  adversity  and  loss,  he  has  never  let  his  spirit 
sink.  In  mind  and  conversation  he  is  still  cheer- 
ful, full  of  jest  and  sprightliness.  But  for  several 
years  his  sight  has  failed  him  greatly  ;  and  at  times 

18*  AA 


418  THE   GOLDEN   WEDDING. 

the  gout  troubles  his  temper.  But  an  angel  moves 
round  the  couch  to  which  suffering  confines  him  ; 
his  feet  are  moved  and  enwrapped  by  soft  white 
hands  ;  the  sick-chamber  and  the  countenance  of 
the  old  man  grow  bright  before  his  orphan  grand- 
child, Serena. 

In  the  aged  countenance  and  bowed  form  of  the 
mother  you  see  an  old  woman.  But  show  her 
something  beautiful,  speak  to  her  of  something 
worthy  of  love,  and  her  mien,  her  smile,  beams 
from  the  eternal  youth  which  dwells  immortal  in 
her  sensitive  spirit.  Then  you  involuntarily  ex- 
claim, "  What  beautiful  age  !  "  If  you  sit  near 
her,  and  look  into  her  mild,  pious  eyes,  you  feel  as 
if  you  could  open  your  whole  soul,  and  believe  in 
every  word  she  speaks,  as  in  the  Gospel.  She  has 
lived  through  much  and  experienced  much  ;  yet 
she  still  says  she  will  live  in  order  to  learn.  Truly 
we  must  all  learn  from  Tier.  Her  tone  and  man- 
ner betoken  true  politeness,  and  much  knowledge 
of  life.  She  alone  has  educated  her  children,  and 
she  still  thinks  and  acts  both  for  children  and  chil- 
dren's children. 

Will  you  see  in  one  little  circumstance  a  minia- 
ture picture  of  the  whole?  Every  evening  the 
old  man  himself  roasts  two  apples  ;  every  evening, 
when  they  are  done,  he  gives  one  of  them  to  his 
"  handsome  old  wife,"  as  he  calls  her.  Thus  for 
fifty  years  have  they  divided  everything  with  each 
other. 


THE   GOLDEN  WEDDING.  419 

And  now  the  day  for  their  Golden  Wedding 
has  arrived.  The  whole  city  and  country  take  an 
interest  in  it.  It  is  as  if  all  the  people  in  the  place 
were  related  to  the  old  Dahls.  The  young  people 
come  from  east  and  west,  ^ —  Dahls  here,  Dahls 
there,  brave  men  and  handsome  children.  A 
swarm  of  cousins  encounter  one  another  at  every 
step.  Brotherships  and  friendships  are  concluded. 

If  you  wish  to  learn  the  true  value  of  marriage, 
• —  if  you  wish  to  see  what  this  union  may  be  for 
two  human  hearts,  and  for  life,  —  then  observe, 
not  the  wedded  ones  in  their  honeymoon,  nor  by 
the  cradle  of  their  first  child  ;  not  at  a  time  when 
novelty  and  hope  yet  throAv  a  morning  glory  over 
the  young  and  new-born  world  of  home ;  but  sur- 
vey them,  rather,  in  the  more  remote  years  of 
manhood,  when  they  have  proved  the  world  and 
each  other  ;  when  they  have  conquered  many  an 
error,  and  many  a  temptation,  in  order  to  become 
only  the  more  united  to  each  other  ;  when  labors 
and  cares  are  theirs  ;  when,  under  the  burden  of 
the  day,  as  well  as  in  hours  of  repose,  they  sup- 
port one  another,  and  find  that  they  are  sufficient 
for  each  other.  Or  survey  them  still  farther  in 
life.  See  them  arrived  at  that  period  when  the 
world,  with  all  its  changes  and  agitations,  rolls 
far  away  from  them  ;  when  every  object  around 
becomes  more  dim  to  them  ;  when  their  house  is 
still ;  when  they  are  solitary,  yet  they  stand  there 
hand  in  hand,  and  each  reads  in  the  other's  eyes 


420  THE   GOLDEN   WEDDING. 

only  love  ;  when  they,  with  the  same  memories 
and  the  same  hopes,  stand  on  the  boundaries  of 
another  life,  into  which  they  are  prepared  to  enter, 
of  all  desires  retaining  only  the  one  that  they  may 
die  on  the  same  day.  Yes,  then  behold  them  ! 
And,  on  that  account,  turn  now  to  the  patriarchs, 
and  to  their  Golden  Wedding. 

There  is,  indeed,  somethino-  worth  celebratino- 

'  '  ~  o ' 

thought  I,  when  I  awoke  in  the  morning.  The 
sun  seemed  to  be  of  the  same  opinion,  for  it  shone 
brightly  on  the  snow-covered  roof  of  the  aged 
pair.  I  wrapped  myself  in  my  cloak,  and  went 
forth  to  carry  my  congratulations  to  the  old  peo- 
ple, and  to  see  if  I  could  be  helpful  to  Serena. 
The  aged  couple  sat  in  the  anteroom,  clad  in  fes- 
tal attire,  each  in  their  own  easy-chair.  A  large 
bouquet  of  fresh  flowers  and  a  hymn-book  were 
on  the  table.  The  sun  shone  in  through  snow- 
white  curtains.  It  was  peaceful  and  cheerful  in 
the  room.  The  patriarch  appeared,  in  the  sunny 
liiiht,  as  if  surrounded  bv  a  glory.  I  offered  my 

O          '  •/  O  v  •' 

congratulations  with  emotion,  and  was  embraced 

~  ' 

by  them,  as  by  a  father  and  mother.  "  A  lovely 
day,  Madame  Werner,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
as  he  looked  toward  the  window.  "  Yes,  beauti- 
ful indeed,"  I  answered.  "  It  is  the  feast  of  love 
and  truth  on  the  earth."  The  two  old  people 
smiled,  and  clasped  each  other's  hands. 

There  was  great  commotion  in  the  hall,  caused 
by  the  arrival  of  troops    of  children  and  grand- 


THE   GOLDEN   WEDDING.  421 

children,  who  all,  in  holiday  garb,  and  with  joy- 
ous looks,  poured  in  to  bring  their  wishes  of  hap- 
piness to  the  venerable  parents.  It  was  charming 
to  see  these  groups  of  lovely  children  cling  round 
the  old  people,  like  young  saplings  round  aged 
stems.  It  was  charming  to  see  the  little  rosy 
mouths  turned  up  to  kiss,  the  little  arms  stretch- 
ing to  embrace  them,  and  to  hear  the  clamor  of 
loving  words  and  exulting  voices. 

I  found  Serena  in  the  kitchen,  surrounded  by 
people,  and  dealing  out  viands  ;  for  to-day  the 
Dahls  made  a  great  distribution  of  food  and 
money  to  the  poor.  Serena  accompanied  the  gifts 
with  friendly  looks  and  words,  and  won  blessings 
for  her  grandparents. 

At  eight  in  the  evening,  the  wedding  guests 
began  to  assemble.  In  the  street  where  they 
lived  the  houses  were  illuminated  in  honor  of  the 
patriarchs,  and  lamps  burned  at  the  corners.  A 
great  number  of  people,  with  glad  countenances, 
wandered  up  and  down  the  street,  in  the  still, 
mild  winter  evening.  The  house  of  the  Dahls 
was  thrown  into  the  shade  by  the  brilliancy  of 
those  in  the  neighborhood ;  but  there  was  light 

o  *  o 

within. 

Serena  met  me  at  the  door  of  the  saloon.  She 
wore  a  white  garland  in  her  light-brown  hair. 
How  charming  she  was  in  her  white  dress,  with 
her  kindly  blue  eyes,  her  pure  brow,  and  the 


422  THE   GOLDEN   WEDDING. 

heavenly  smile  on  her  lips  !  She  was  so  friendly, 
so  amiable,  to  everybody  !  Friends  and  relatives 
arrived ;  the  rooms  became  filled.  They  drank 
tea,  ate  ices,  and  so  on ;  and  then  there  fell  at 
once  a  great  silence.  The  two  old  people  seated 
themselves  in  two  easy-chairs,  which  stood  near 
each  other  in  the  middle  of  the  saloon,  on  a  richly 
embroidered  mat.  Their  children  and  their  chil- 
dren's children  gathered  in  a  half-circle  round 
them.  A  clergyman  of  noble  presence  stepped 
forward,  and  pronounced  an  oration  on  the  beauty 
and  holiness  of  marriage.  He  concluded  with  a 
reference  to  the  life  of  the  venerable  pair,  which 
was  in  itself  a  better  sermon  on  the  excellence  of 
marriage,  for  the  human  heart,  and  for  life,  than 
was  his  speech,  though  what  he  said  was  true  and 
touching.  There  was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the  whole 
company.  All  were  in  a  solemn,  affectionate 
mood. 

Meantime,  preparations  for  the  festival  were 
completed  in  the  second  story,  to  which  the  guests 
ascended.  Here  tableaux  were  presented,  whose 
beauty  and  grace  exceeded  everything  I  had  an- 
ticipated. The  last  one  consisted  of  a  well-ar- 
ranged group  of  all  the  descendants  of  the  Dahls, 
during  the  exhibition  of  which  a  chorus  was  sung. 
The  whole  exhibition  gave  great  and  general  pleas- 
ure. When  the  chorus  ceased,  and  the  curtain 
fell,  the  doors  of  the  dance-saloon  flew  open  ;  a 
dazzling  light  streamed  thence,  and  lively  music 


THE   GOLDEN   WEDDING.  423 

set  all  the  hearts  and  feet  of  the  young  people  in 
lively  motion. 

We  sat  talking  pleasantly  together,  till  supper 
was  served,  in  various  little  tables,  in  three  rooms. 
Lagman  Hok  raised  his  glass,  and  begged  permis- 
sion to  drink  a  toast.  All  were  attentive.  Then, 
fixing  a  mild,  confident  gaze  on  the  patriarchs,  he 
said,  in  a  low  voice :  "  Flowers  and  Harps  were 
woven  into  the  mat  on  which  our  honored  friends 
this  evening  heard  the  words  of  blessing  pro- 
nounced over  them.  They  are  the  symbols  of 
Happiness  and  Harmony ;  and  these  are  the  Pe- 
nates of  this  house.  That  they  surround  you  in 
this  festive  hour,  venerable  friends,  we  cannot  re- 
gard as  an  accident.  I  seemed  to  hear  them 

o 

say,    '  During  your  union  you  have  so 

welcomed   and    cherished    us,    that 

we  are  at  home  here,  and  can 

never  forsake  you.     Your 

age  shall  be  like  your 

youth ! ' " 


THE  wisest  man  may  be  wiser  to-day  than  he 
was  yesterday,  and  to-morrow  than  he  is  to-day. 

COLTON. 


THE   WORN   WEDDING   RING. 

BY   W.    C.    BENNETT. 

YOUR  wedding  ring  wears  thin,  dear  wife.     Ah, 
summers  not  a  few, 
Since  I  put  it  on  your  finger  first,  have  passed  o'er  me 

and  you. 
And,  love,  what  changes  we  have  seen !  what  cares  and 

pleasures  too  ! 

Since  you  became  my  own  dear  wife,  when  this  old 
ring  was  new. 

0  blessings  on  that  happy  day,  the  happiest  of  my  life, 
When,  thanks  to  God,  your  low,  sweet  '"Yes"  made  you 

my  loving  wife ! 
Your  heart  will  say  the  same,  I  know ;  that  day 's  as 

dear  to  you, 
The  day  that  made  me  yours,  dear  wife,  when  this  old 

ring  was  new. 

How  well  do  I  remember  now  your  young,  sweet  face 

that  day ! 
How  fair  you  were,  how  dear  you   were,  my  tongue 

could  hardly  say ; 


THE    WORN   WEDDING  RING.  425 

Nor  how  I  doated  on  you.    Ah,  how  proud  I  was  of  you  ! 
But  did  I  love  you  more  than  now,  when  this  old  ring 

was  new  ? 

No !  No  !  no  fairer  were  you  then,  than  at  this  hour,  to 

me  ; 
And  dear  as  life  to  me  this  day,  how  could  you  dearer 

be? 
As  sweet  your  face  might  be  that  day  as  now  it  is,  't  is 

true ; 
But  did  I  know  your  heart  as  well,  when  this  old  ring 

was  new  ? 

0  partner  of  my  gladness,  wife,  what  care,  what  grief, 

is  there 
For  me  you  would  not  bravely  face  ?    with  me  you 

would  not  share  ? 

O,  what  a  weary  want  had  every  day,  if  wanting  you! 
Wanting  the  love  that  God  made  mine  when  this  old 

ring  was  new ! 

Years  bring  fresh  links  to  bind  us,  wife,  —  small  voices 

that  are  here, 
Small  faces  round  our  fire  that  make  their  mother's  yet 

more  dear, 
Small,  loving  hearts,  your  care  each   day  makes  yet 

more  like  to  you, 
More  like  the  loving  heart  made  mine  when  this  old 

ring  was  new. 

And,  blessed  be  God,  all  He  has  given  are  with  us  yet ; 

around 
Our  table  every  little  life  lent  to  us  still  is  found ; 


426  THE    WORN   WEDDING  RING. 

Though  cares  we  've  known,  with  hopeful  hearts  the 

worst  we  've  struggled  through ; 
Blessed  be  His  name  for  all  His  love  since  this  old  ring 

was  new. 

The  past  is  dear ;  its  sweetness  still  our  memories  treas- 
ure yet ; 

The  griefs  we  've  borne,  together  borne,  we  would  not 
now  forget. 

Whatever,  wife,  the  future  brings,  heart  unto  heart  still 
true, 

We  '11  share,  as  we  have  shared  all  else,  since  this  old 
ring  was  new. 

And  if  God  spare  us,  'mongst  our  sons  and  daughters  to 

grow  old, 
We  know  His  goodness  will  not  let  your  heart  or  mine 

grow  cold. 
Your  aged  eyes  will  see  in  mine  all  they  've  still  shown 

to  you  ; 
And  mine  in  yours  all  they  have  seen  since  this  old 

ring  was  new. 

And  0,  when  death  shall  come  at  last  to  bid  me  to  my 

rest, 
May  I  die  looking  in  those  eyes,  and  resting  on  that 

breast ! 
O,  may  my  parting  gaze  be  blessed  with  the  dear  sight 

of  you ! 
Of  those  fond  eyes,  —  fond  as  they  were  when  this  old 

ring  was  new. 

CHAMBERS'S  JOURNAL. 


HINTS  ABOUT   HEALTH. 


BY  L.   MARIA   CHILD. 


S>  HERE  are  general  rules  of  health, 
that  cannot  be  too  often  repeated  and 
urged,  concerning  which  physicians 
of  all  schools  are  nearly  unanimous. 
All  who  are  acquainted  with  the  physical  laws 
of  our  being,  agree  that  too  much  food  is  eaten. 
As  far  back  as  the  twelfth  century,  the  School 
of  Salerno,  the  first  Medical  School  established  in 
Europe,  published  Maxims  for  Health,  among 
which  were  the  following :  "  Let  these  three  things 
be  your  physicians ;  cheerfulness,  moderate  re- 
pose, and  diet."  "  Eat  little  supper,  and  you  will 
sleep  quietlv."  A  few  years  ago,  the  celebrated 
French  physician,  Dumoulin,  in  his  last  illness, 
said  to  friends  who  were  lamenting  the  loss  of 
his  medical  services,  "  I  shall  leave  behind  me 
three  physicians  much  greater  than  I  am  :  water, 
exercise,  and  diet." 

The  Rev.  Sydney  Smith  says  :  "  The  longer  I 


428  HINTS  ABOUT  HEALTH. 

live,  the  more  I  am  convinced  that  half  the  un- 
happiness  in  the  world  proceeds  from  little  stop- 
pages ;  from  a  duct  choked  up,  from  food  press- 
ing in  the  wrong  place,  from  a  vexed  duodenum, 
or  an  agitated  pylorus.  The  deception,  as  prac- 
tised upon  human  creatures,  is  curious  and  enter- 
taining. My  friend  sups  late ;  he  eats  some  strong 
soup,  then  a  lobster,  then  some  tart,  and  he  di- 
lutes these  excellent  varieties  with  wine.  The 
next  day  I  call  upon  him.  He  is  going  to  sell 
his  house  in  London,  and  to  retire  into  the  coun- 
try. He  is  alarmed  for  his  eldest  daughter's  health. 
His  expenses  are  hourly  increasing,  and  nothing 
Lut  a  timely  retreat  can  save  him  from  ruin.  All 
this  is  the  lobster.  Old  friendships  are  some- 
times destroyed  by  toasted  cheese,  and  hard  salted 
meat  has  led  to  suicide.  I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  mankind  consume  twice  too  much 
food.  According  to  my  computation,  I  have  eaten 
and  drunk,  between  my  tenth  and  seventieth 
year,  forty-four  horse-wagon  loads  more  than  was 
good  for  me." 

The  example  of  Ludovicus  Cornaro  is  a  very 
striking  proof  of  the  advantages  of  abstinence. 
Modern  physicians  agree  with  him,  that  it  is  par- 
ticularly wise  for  people,  as  they  grow  older,  to 
diminish  the  quantity  of  solid  food.  Little  should 
be  eaten,  especially  by  those  who  do  not  exercise 
greatly  ;  and  that  little  should  be  light  and  nu- 
tritious. It  is  also  important  that  food  and  sleep 
should  be  taken  at  regular  intervals. 


HINTS  ABOUT  HEALTH.  429 

Early  rising,  and  frequent,  though  not  exces- 
sive exercise,  are  extremely  conducive  to  good 
health  and  good  spirits.  There  is  now  living  in 
South  Kingston,  R.  I.,  an  old  man,  named  Eben- 
ezer  Adams,  who  is  past  ninety,  and  has  never 
called  upon  a  physician,  or  taken  a  single  pre- 
scription, in  his  whole  life.  He  has  mowed  every 
season  for  the  last  seventy-five  years.  The  past 
summer  he  has  raised  with  his  own  hands  one 
hundred  and  thirty  bushels  of  potatoes,  and  har- 
vested them  himself;  conveying  them  about  three 
quarters  of  a  mile,  in  a  wheelbarrow,  to  his  house. 
He  has  raised  and  harvested  forty  bushels  of 
corn  himself.  He  has  mowed  and  put  up,  with- 
out the  help  of  man  or  beast,  six  tons  of  hay. 
He  hauled  it  on  hay-poles  of  his  own  manufac- 
ture, and  put  it  in  the  barn  himself.  He  carries 
his  corn  two  miles  and  a  half,  two  bushels  at  a 
time,  in  a  wheelbarrow,  to  the  mill,  himself.  Rainy 
•weather,  and  in  winter,  he  is  at  work  at  his  trade" 
as  a  cooper.  His  uninterrupted  health  is  doubtless 
mainly  owing  to  constant  exercise  in  the  open  air. 

The  Rev.  John  Wesley,,  speaking  of  his  re- 
markable freedom  from  fatigue  amid  the  inces- 
sant labors  of  his  old  age,  says :  k'  I  owe  it  to 
the  goodness  of  God.  But  one  natural  cause  un- 
doubtedly is  my  continual  exercise,  and  change 
of  air.  How  the  latter  contributes  to  health,  I 
know  not ;  but  it  undoubtedly  does." 

The  Duke  of  Wellington,  who  retained  his  men- 


430  HINTS  ABOUT  HEALTH. 

tal  and  physical  faculties,  in  a  remarkable  degree, 
to  an  advanced  age,  lived  with  so  much  simplicity, 
that  a  celebrated  cook  left  his  service  on  the  plea 
that  he  had  no  opportunity  to  display  his  skill. 
He  was  in  the  habit  of  applying  vigorous  friction 
to  all  his  body  daily.  He  slept  on  his  narrow,  iron 
camp  bedstead,  and  walked  briskly,  or  rode  on 
horseback,  while  other  gentlemen  were  sleeping. 
He  made  no  use  of  tobacco  in  any  form.  FoY 
many  years  he  refrained  from  the  use  of  wine,  say- 
ing he  found  no  advantage  from  it,  and  relinquished 
it  for  the  sake  of  his  health. 

The  Hon.  Josiah  Quincy  is  a  memorable  ex- 
ample of  vigorous  old  age.  He  has  always  been 
an  early  riser,  and  very  active  in  his  habits,  both 
intellectual  and  physical.  For  many  years,  he  has 
practised  gymnastics  fifteen  minutes  every  morn- 
ing, before  dressing ;  throwing  his  limbs  about 
with  an  agility  which  few  young  men  could  sur- 
pass. Believing  the  healthy  state  of  the  skin  to 
be  of  great  importance,  he  daily  applies  friction  to 
his  whole  body,  by  means  of  horse-hair  gloves. 
He  is  temperate  in  his  diet,  and  rarely  tastes  of 
wine.  He  is  careful  not  to  let  his  mind  rust  for 
want  of  vise.  He  is  always  adding  to  his  stock  of 
knowledge,  and  he  takes  a  lively  interest  in  public 
affairs.  He  is  now  past  ninety ;  yet  few  have 
spoken  so  wisely  and  boldly  as  he  has  concerning 
the  national  emergencies  which  have  been  occurring 
during  the  last  ten  years.  He  profits  by  a  hint  he 


HINTS  ABOUT  HEALTH.  431 

received  from  the  venerable  John  Adams,  in  answer 
to  the  question  how  he  had  managed  to  preserve 
the  vigor  of  his  mind  to  such  an  advanced  age. 
"  Simply  by  exercising  it,"  replied  Mr.  Adams. 
"  Old  minds  are  like  old  horses  ;  you  must  exercise 
them  if  you  wish  to  keep  them  in  working  order." 

A  few  years  since,  the  Rev.  Daniel  Waldo  ad- 
dressed the  graduates  at  Yale  College,  on  Com- 
mencement Day.  In  the  course  of  his  remarks, 
he  said :  "I  am  now  an  old  man.  I  have  seen 
nearly  a  century.  Do  you  want  to  know  how  to 
grow  old  slowly  and  happily  ?  Let  me  tell  you. 
Always  eat  slowly  ;  masticate  well.  Go  to  your 
food,  to  your  rest,  to  your  occupations,  smiling. 
Keep  a  good  nature  and  a  soft  temper  everywhere. 
Never  give  way  to  anger.  A  violent  tempest  of 
passion  tears  down  the  constitution  more  than  a 
typhus  fever." 

Leigh  Hunt  says  :  "  Do  not  imagine  that 
mind  alone  is  concerned  in  your  bad  spirits.  The 
body  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  these  matters. 
The  mind  may  undoubtedly  affect  the  body  ;  but 
the  body  also  affects  the  mind.  There  is  a  reac- 
tion between  them  ;  and  by  lessening  it  on  either 
side  you  diminish  the  pain  of  both.  If  you  are 
melancholy,  and  know  not  why,  be  assured  it  must 
arise  entirely  from  some  physical  weakness,  and  do 
your  best  to  strengthen  yourself.  The  blood  of  a 
melancholy  man  is  thick  and  slow.  The  blood  of 
a  lively  man  is  clear  and  quick.  Endeavor,  there- 


432  HINTS  ABOUT  HEALTH. 

fore,  to  put  your  blood  in  motion.  Exercise  is  the 
best  way  to  do  it." 

The  homely  old  maxim, — 

"  After  breakfast,  work  a  while ; 
After  dinner,  sit  and  smile  ; 
After  supper,  walk  a  mile,"  — 

contains  a  good  deal  of  practical  wisdom.  Manual 
labor  in  the  forenoon  ;  cheerful  conversation,  or 
music,  after  dinner  ;  a  light  supper,  at  five  or  six 
o'clock,  and  a  pleasant  walk  afterward,  will  pre- 
serve health,  and  do  much  to  restore  it,  if  under- 
mined. A  walk  at  any  period  of  the  day  does  the 
body  twice  as  much  good  if  connected  with  some 
object  that  interests  the  mind  or  heart.  To  walk 
out  languidly  into  infinite  space,  merely  to  aid 
digestion,  as  rich  epicures  are  wont  to  do,  takes 
half  the  virtue  out  of  exercise. 

An  aged  clergyman,  who  had  never  known  a 
day's  illness,  was  asked  how  he  accounted  for  it. 
He  replied,  "  Dry  feet  and  early  rising  have  been 
my  only  precautions."  In  "  Hall's  Journal  of 
Health  "  I  find  the  following  advice,  of  which  I 
know  the  value  by  experience  :  "  If  you  are  well, 
let  yourself  alone.  This  is  our  favorite  motto. 
But  to  you  whose  feet  are  inclined  to  be  cold,  we 
suggest  that  as  soon  as  you  get  up  in  the  morning, 
put  your  feet  at  once  in  a  basin  of  cold  water,  so  as 
to  come  half-way  to  the  ankles  ;  keep  them  in  half 
a  minute  in  winter,  or  two  minutes  in  summer, 
rubbing  them  both  vigorously  ;  wipe  dry,  and  hold 


HINTS  ABOUT  HEALTH,  433 

to  the  fire,  if  convenient,  in  cold  weather,  until 
every  part  of  the  foot  feels  as  dry  as  your  hand, 
then  put  on  your  socks  or  stockings.  On  going  to 
bed  at  night,  draw  off  your  stockings,  and  hold  the 
foot  to  the  fire  for  ten  or  fifteen  minutes,  until  per- 
fectly dry,  and  get  right  into  bed.  This  is  a  most 
pleasant  operation,  and  fully  repays  for  the  trouble 
of  it.  No  one  can  sleep  well  or  refreshingly  with 
cold  feet.  Never  step  from  your  bed  with  the 
naked  feet  on  an  uncarpeted  floor.  I  have  known 
it  to  be  the  exciting  cause  of  months  of  illness. 
Wear  woollen,  cotton,  or  silk  stockings,  whichever 
keep  your  feet  most  comfortable  ;  do  not  let  the 
experience  of  another  be  your  guide,  for  different 
persons  require  different  articles  ;  what  is  good  for 
a  person  whose  feet  are  naturally  damp,  cannot  be 
good  for  one  whose  feet  are  always  dry." 

In  Italy,  and  all  the  other  grape-growing  coun- 
tries of  Europe,  people  have  the  habit  of  drinking 
wine  with  breakfast.  Cornaro  followed  the  gen- 
eral custom,  and  he  recommends  a  moderate  use 
of  wine  as  essential  to  old  people.  But  at  that  re- 
mote period  there  was  less  knowledge  of  the  phys- 
ical laws  than  there  now  is.  He  confesses  that 
he  always  found  old  wine  very  deleterious  to  him, 
and  that  for  many  years  he  never  tasted  any  but 
new  wine.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  who  was  born 
only  ninety  years  later  than  Cornaro,  gives  the 
following  sensible  advice  :  "  Except  thou  desire  to 
hasten  thy  end,  take  this  for  a  general  rule  :  that 

19  BB 


434  HINTS  ABOUT  HEALTH. 

thou  never  add  any  artifical  heat  to  thy  body  by 
wine  or  spice,  until  thou  find  that  time  hath  de- 
cayed thy  natural  heat  ;  and  the  sooner  thou  dost 
begin  to  help  Nature,  the  sooner  she  will  forsake 
thee,  and  leave  thee  to  trust  altogether  to  art." 

The  late  Dr.  Warren,  in  his  excellent  little  book 
on  the  "Preservation  of  Health,"  bears  the  follow- 
ing testimony  :  "  Habitual  temperance  in  regard  to 
the  quantity  of  food,  regular  exercise,  and  absti- 
nence from  all  stimulants  except  for  medicinal  pur- 
pose's, would  greatly  diminish  or  obviate  the  evils 
of  age.  It  is  idle  to  say  that  men  can  and  do  live 
sometimes  even  to  great  age  under  the  practice  of 
various  excesses,  particularly  under  the  use  of 
stimulants.  The  natural  and  sufficient  stimulus 
of  the  stomach  is  healthy  food.  Any  stimulus 
more  active  produces  an  unnatural  excitement, 
which  will  ultimately  tell  in  the  great  account  of 
bad  habits.  The  old  adase,  '  Wine  is  the  milk 

O      ' 

of  age,'  is  not  supported  by  exact  observation  of 
facts.  For  more  than  twenty  years  I  have  had 
occasion  to  notice  a  great  number  of  instances  of 
the  sudden  disuse  of  wine  without  mischievous 
results.  On  the  contrary,  the  disuse  has  generally 
been  followed  by  an  improvement  of  appetite,  free- 
dom from  habitual  headache,  and  a  tranquil  state 
of  body  and  mind.  Those  who  have  boen  educat- 
ed to  the  use  of  wine  do,  indeed,  find  some  incon- 
venience from  the  substitution  of  a  free  use  of 
water.  If,  however,  they  begin  by  taking  the 


HINTS  ABOUT  HEALTH.  435 

pure  fluid  in  moderate  quantities  only,  no  such 
inconvenience  occurs.  The  preceding  remarks 
may  be  applied  to  beer,  cider,  and  other  ferment- 
ed liquors.  After  the  age  of  sixty,  I  myself  gave 
up  the  habit  of  drinking  wine  ;  and,  so  far  from 
experiencing  any  inconvenience,  I  have  found  my 
health  better  without  it  than  with  it." 

Dr.  Warren's  exhortations  against  the  use  of 
tobacco  are  very  forcible.  He  says  :  "  The  habit 
of  smoking  impairs  the  natural  taste  and  relish  for 
food,  lessens  the  appetite,  and  weakens  the  powers 
of  the  stomach.  Tobacco,  being  drawn  in  with 
the  vital  breath,  conveys  its  poisonous  influence 
into  every  part  of  the  lungs.  The  blood,  having 
imbibed  the  narcotic  principle,  circulates  it  through 
the  whole  system.  Eruptions  on  the  skin,  weak- 
ness of  the  stomach,  heart,  and  lungs,  dizziness, 
headache,  confusion  of  thought,  and  a  low  febrile 
action  must  be  the  consequence.  Where  there  is 
any  tendency  to  diseases  of  the  lungs,  the  debility 
of  these  organs  consequent  on  the  smoking  of  to- 
bacco must  favor  the  deposit  of  tuberculous  mat- 
ter, and  thus  sow  the  seeds  of  consumption. 

"  Snuff'  received  into  the  nostrils  enters  the 
cavities  opening  from  them,  and  makes  a  snuff- 
box of  the  olfactory  apparatus.  The  voice  is  con- 
sequently impaired,  sometimes  to  a  remarkable 
degree.  I  knew  a  gentleman  of  the  legal  profes- 
sion who,  from  the  use  of  snuff  occasionally,  lost 
the  power  of  speaking  audibly  in  court.  More- 


436  HINTS  ABOUT  HEALTH. 

over,  portions  of  this  powder  are  conveyed  into 
the  lungs  and  stomach,  and  exert  on  those  organs 
their  deleterious  effects. 

"  The  worst  form  in  which  tobacco  is  employed 
is  in  chewing.  This  vegetable  is  one  of  the  most 
powerful  of  narcotics.  A  very  small  portion  of  it 
—  say  a  couple  of  drachms,  and  perhaps  even 
less  —  received  into  the  stomach  might  prove  fa- 
tal. When  it  is  taken  into  the  mouth  in  smaller 
portions,  and  there  retained  some  time,  an  absorp- 
tion of  part  of  it  into  the  system  takes  place,  which 
has  a  most  debilitating  effect.  If  we  wished  to 
reduce  our  physical  powers  in  a  slow  yet  certain 
way,  we  could  not  adopt  a  more  convenient  pro- 
cess. The  more  limited  and  local  effects  are  indi- 
gestion, fixed  pains  about  the  region  of  the  stom- 
ach, debility  of  the  back,  affections  of  the  brain, 
producing  vertigo,  and  also  affections  of  the  mouth, 
generating  cancer." 

Too  much  cannot  be  said  in  favor  of  frequently 
washing  the  whole  person  in  cold  water,  or,  if  not 
entirely  cold  in  winter,  at  least  as  nearly  so  as  it 
can  be  without  producing  a  chill.  It  operates  both 
as  a  purifier  and  a  tonic.  The  health  in  all  re- 
spects greatly  depends  upon  keeping  the  pores  of 
the  skin  open.  Attacks  of  rheumatism  might  often 
be  warded  off  by  this  habit.  The  -washing  should 
be  in  a  warm  room,  and  followed  immediately  by  a 
smart  rubbing  with  a  coarse  towel. 

When  wounds,  bruises,  or  cracks   in  the   skin 


HINTS  ABOUT  HEALTH.  437 

become  inflamed  and  feverish,  there  is  no  applica- 
tion better  than  a  linen  rag,  doubled  six  or  eight 
times,  wet  with  cold  water,  and  bound  on  with  a 
thick,  dry,  cotton  bandage,  which  completely  cov- 
ers it.  Inveterate  sores  will  be  healed  by  a  repe- 
tition of  this  application.  The  same  is  true  of 
sore  throat ;  but  the  wet  cloth  should  be  carefully 
and  completely  covered  with  dry  woollen,  so  as  to 
exclude  the  air.  When  removed,  it  should  be 
done  soon  after  one  rises  in  the  morning ;  the 
throat  should  then  be  plentifully  sponged  with 
cold  water,  and  wiped  thoroughly  dry.  There  is 
danger  of  taking  cold  after  the  application  of  hot 
or  warm  water ;  but  it  is  not  so  with  the  use  of 
cold  water. 

It  is  a  great  preservation  to  the  eyesight  to 
plunge  the  face  into  cold  water  every  morning, 
and  wink  the  eyes  in  it  while  one  counts  thirty  or 
forty.  In  order  to  do  this,  one  must  draw  in  the 
breath  when  about  to  plunge  the  head  into  the 
water,  and  hold  the  breath  while  it  remains  there. 
It  seems  difficult  to  do  this  at  first,  but  it  soon  be- 
comes easy.  It  is  well  to  repeat  the  operation  six 
or  eight  times  every  morning.  In  cold  weather, 
put  in  warm  water  enough  to  prevent  a  painful 
chill. 

Before  retiring  to  rest,  great  care  should  be 
taken  to  remove  every  particle  of  food  from  be- 
tween the  teeth  with  a  tooth-pick  of  willow,  or 
ivory,  and  cleanse  the  mouth  very  thoroughly  by 


438  HINTS  ABOUT  HEALTH. 

the  use  of  the  brush,  and  rinsing.  It  is  more  im- 
portant at  night  than  in  the  morning ;  because 
during  sleep  an  active  process  of  fermentation  goes 
on,  which  produces  decay.  It  is  an  excellent  plan 
to  hold  a  piece  of  charcoal  in  the  mouth  fre- 
quently. It  arrests  incipient  toothache  and  de- 
cay, and  tends  to  preserve  the  teeth  by  its  antisep- 
tic properties.  If  chewed,  it  should  not  be  swal- 
lowed, except  occasionally,  and  in  small  quantities  ; 
and  it  should  never  be  rubbed  on  the  teeth,  as  it 
injures  the  enamel. 

Old  people  are  generally  reluctant  to  admit  that 
the  present  generation  is  wiser  than  the  past ;  but 
in  one  respect  all  must  allow  that  there  is  obvious 
improvement.  Far  less  medicine  is  taken  than 
formerly ;  and  more  attention  is  paid  to  diet. 
Still,  people  by  no  means  pay  sufficient  attention 
to  the  good  old  maxim,  "  An  ounce  of  prevention 
is  worth  a  pound  of  cure."  Nature  gives  us 
kindly  warnings,  which  we  thoughtlessly  neglect. 
When  the  head  aches  and  the  skin  is  hot,  we  often 
continue  to  cat  hearty  food,  merely  because  we 
like  the  taste  of  it ;  and  the  result  of  this  impru- 
dence is  a  fever,  which  might  have  been  easily 
and  cheaply  prevented  by  living  two  or  three  days 
on  bread  and  water,  or  simple  gruels. 

Fruits  are  among  the  best  as  well  as  the  pleas- 
antest  of  remedies.  Fresh  currants  agree  with 
nearly  all  dyspeptics,  and  are  excellent  for  people 
of  feverish  tendencies ;  cranberries  also.  The 


HINTS  ABOUT  HEALTH.  439 

abundant  use  of  apples  is  extremely  conducive  to 
health.  The  free  use  of  grapes  is  said  to  cure 
liver-complaints,  and  to  be  in  other  respects  salu- 
tary for  the  system.  Linnaeus  tells  us  that  he  was 
cured  of  severe  rheumatism  by  eating  strawber- 
ries, and  that  he  afterward  habitually  resorted  to 
them  when  he  had  an  attack  of  that  painful  dis- 
ease. Captain  Cook  has  also  recorded,  that  when 
lie  touched  at  an  island  where  strawberries  were  in 
great  profusion,  the  crew  devoured  them  eagerly, 
and  were  cured  of  a  scorbutic  complaint,  which 
had  afflicted  them  greatly.  Lemonade  and  oran- 
ges are  recommended  for  rheumatism  ;  vegetable 
acids  in  general  being  salutary  for  that  disease. 
Mother  Nature  is  much  kinder  to  us  than 
we  are  to  ourselves.  She  loves  to  lead 
us  gently,  and  the  violent  reactions 

from  which  we  suffer  we  brill"- 

o 

upon  ourselves  by   violat- 
ing the  laws  she  is  con- 
stantly striving  to 
teach  us. 


"  How  shall  I  manage  to  be  healthy  ?  "  said  a 
wealthy  invalid  to  the  famous  Dr.  Abernethy. 
"•  Live  on  sixpence  a  day,  and  earn  it,"  was  his 
laconic  reply. 


THE    INVALID'S  PRAYER. 

BY  REV.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 

OTHOU,  whose  wise,  paternal  love 
Hath  cast  my  active  vigor  down, 
Thy  choice  I  thankfully  approve  : 

And,  prostrate  at  Thy  gracious  throne, 
I  offer  up  my  life's  remains  ; 
I  choose  the  state  my  God  ordains. 

Cast  as  a  broken  vessel  by, 
Thy  will  I  can  no  longer  do  ; 

But  while  a  daily  death  I  die, 

Thy  power  I  can  in  weakness  show ; 

My  patience  shall  thy  glory  raise, 

My  steadfast  trust  proclaim  thy  praise. 


TRIALS  make  our  faith  sublime, 
Trials  give  new  life  to  prayer, 

Lift  us  to  a  holier  clime, 

Make  us  strong  to  do  and  bear. 

COWPER. 


THE  OLD  PASTOR  AND  HIS  SON. 


FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    JEAN    PAUL    RICHTER. 


the  little  village  of  Heim,  Gottreich 
Hartmann  resided  with  his  old  father, 
who  was  a  curate.  The  old  man  had 
wellnigh  outlived  all  those  whom  he 

o 

had  loved,  but  he  was  made  happy  by  his  son. 
Gottreich  discharged  for  him  his  duties  in  the 
parish,  not  so  much  in  aid  of  his  parent's  un- 
tiring vigor,  as  to  satisfy  his  own  energy,  and  to 
give  his  father  the  exquisite  gratification  of  being 
edified  by  his  child  and  companion. 

In  Gottreich  there  .thrilled  a  spirit  of  true 
poetry  ;  and  his  father  also  had,  in  his  youth,  a 
poet's  ardor,  of  like  intensity,  but  it  had  not  been 
favored  by  the  times.  Son  and  father  seemed 
to  live  in  one  another  ;  and  on  the  site  of  filial 
and  paternal  love  there  arose  the  structure  of  a 
rare  and  peculiar  friendship.  Gottreich  not  only 
cheered  his  father  by  the  new  birth  of  his  own 
lost  poet-youth,  but  by  the  still  more  beautiful 

19* 


442      THE   OLD  PASTOR  AND  HIS  SON. 

similarity  of  their  faith.  The  father  found  again 
his  old  Christian  heart  sending  forth  new  shoots 
in  the  bosom  of  Gottreich,  and  moreover  the  best 
justification  of  the  convictions  of  his  life  and  of 
his  love. 

If  it  be  pain  for  us  to  love  and  to  contradict 
at  the  same  time,  to  refuse  with  the  head  what 
the  heart  grants,  it  is  all  the  sweeter  to  us  to 
find  ourselves  and  our  faith  transplanted  into  a 
younger  being.  Life  is  then  as  a  beautiful  night, 
in  which,  as  one  star  goes  down,  another  rises 
in  its  place.  Gottreich  possessed  a  paradise,  in 
which  he  labored  as  his  father's  gardener.  He 
was  at  once  the  wife,  the  brother,  the  friend  of 
his  parent ;  the  all  that  is  to  be  loved  by  man. 
Every  Sunday  brought  him  a  new  pleasure,  —  that 
of  preaching  a  sermdn  before  his  father.  If  the 
eyes  of  the  old  man  became  moistened,  or  if  he 
suddenly  folded  his  hands  in  an  attitude  of  prayer, 
that  Sunday  became  the  holiest  of  festivals.  Many 
a  festival  has  there  been  in  that  quiet  little  par- 
sonage, the  joyfulness  of  which  no  one  understood 
and  no  one  perceived.  The  love  and  approba- 
tion  of  an  energetic  old  man,  like  Hartmann, 
whose  spiritual  limbs  had  by  no  means  stiffened 
on  the  chilly  ridge  of  years,  could  not  but  ex- 
ercise a  powerful  influence  on  a  young  man  like 
Gottreich,  who,  more  tenderly  and  delicately 
formed  both  in  body  and  mind,  was  wont  to  shoot 
forth  in  loftier  and  more  rapid  flame. 


THE   OLD  PASTOR  AND  HIS  SON.     443 

To  these  two  happy  men  was  added  a  happy 
woman  also.  Justa,  an  orphan,  sole  mistress  of 
her  property,  had  sold  the  house  which  had  been 
her  father's  in  the  city,  and  had  removed  into 
the  upper  part  of  a  good  peasant's  cottage,  to 
live  entirely  in  the  country.  Justa  did  nothing 
by  halves ;  she  often  did  things  more  than  com- 
pletely, as  most  would  think  at  least,  in  all  that 
touched  her  generosity.  She  had  not  long  re- 
sided in  the  village  of  Helm,  and  seen  the  meek 
Gottreich,  and  listened  to  some  of  his  spring- 
tide sermons,  ere  she  discovered  that  he  had  won 
her  heart,  filled  as  it  was  with  the  love  of  virtue. 
She  nevertheless  refused  to  give  him  her  hand 
until  the  conclusion  of  the  great  peace,  after 
which  they  were  to  be  married.  She  was  ever 
more  fond  of  doing  what  is  difficult  than  what 
is  easy.  I  wish  it  were  here  the  place  to  tell 
of  the  May-time  life  they  led,  which  seemed  to 
blossom  in  the  low  parsonage-house,  near  the 
church-door,  under  Justa's  hand ;  how  she  came 
from  her  own  cottage,  in  the  morning,  to  order 
matters  in  the  little  dwelling  for  the  day ;  how 
the  evenings  were  passed  in  the  garden,  orna- 
mented with  a  few  pretty  flower-beds,  and  com- 
manding a  view  of  many  a  well-watered  meadow, 
and  distant  hill,  and  stars  without  number ;  how 
these  three  hearts  played  into  one  another,  no 
one  of  which,  in  this  most  pure  and  intimate  in- 
tercourse, knew  or  felt  anything  which  was  not 


444      THE  OLD  PASTOR  AND  HIS  SON. 

of  the  fairest ;  and  how  cheerfulness  and  good  in- 
tention marked  the  passage  of  their  lives.  Every 
bench  was  a  church  seat,  all  was  peaceful  and 
holy,  and  the  firmament  above  was  an  infinite 
church-dome. 

In  many  a  village  and  in  many  a  house  is  hid- 
den a  true  Eden,  which  has  neither  been  named 
nor  marked  down  ;  for  happiness  is  fond  of  cover- 
ing over  and  concealing  her  tenderest  flowers. 
Gottreich  reposed  in  such  tenderness  of  love  and 
bliss,  of  poetry  and  religion,  of  spring-time,  of  the 
past  and  of  the  future,  that,  in  the  depths  of  his 
heart,  he  feared  to  speak  out  his  happiness,  save  in 
prayer.  In  prayer,  thought  he,  man  may  say  all 
his  happiness  and  his  misery.  His  father  -was  very 
happy  also.  There  came  over  him  a  warm  old 
age ;  no  winter  night,  but  a  summer  evening 
without  chill  or  darkness  ;  albeit  the  sun  of  his 
life  was  sunk  pretty  deep  below  the  mound  of 
earth  under  which  his  wife  was  lain  down  to  sleep. 

In  these  sweetest  May-hours  of  youth,  when 
heaven  and  earth  and  his  own  heart  were  beating 
together  in  triune  harmony,  Gottreich  gave  ar- 
dent words  to  his  ardent  thoughts,  and  kept  them 
written  down,  under  the  title  of  *'  Reminiscences 
of  the  best  Hours  of  Life,  for  the  Hour  of  Death." 
He  meant  to  cheer  himself,  in  his  last  hours,  with 
these  views  of  his  happy  life  ;  and  to  look  back, 
through  them,  from  the  glow  of  his  evening  to  the 
bright  morning  of  his  youth. 


THE   OLD  PASTOR  AND  HIS  SON.     445 

Thus  lived  these  three  beings,  ever  rejoicing 
more  deeply  in  one  another,  and  in  their  genial 
happiness,  when  the  chariots  of  war  began  to  roll 
over  the  land.*  Gottreich  became  another  man. 
The  active  powers  of  his  nature,  which  had  here- 
tofore been  the  quiet  audience  of  his  poetical  and 
oratorical  powers,  now  arose.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
spirit  of  energy,  which  hitherto  had  wasted  itself 
on  empty  air,  like  the  flames  of  a  bituminous  soil, 
were  now  seeking  an  object  to  lay  hold  of.  He 
did  not  venture  to  propose  separating  from  his 
father,  but  he  alternately  refreshed  and  tormented 
himself  inwardly  with  the  idea  of  sharing  the  labors 
and  combats  of  his  countrymen.  He  confided  his 
wishes  to  Justa  only  ;  but  she  did  not  give  him 
encouragement,  because  she  feared  the  old  man's 
solitude  would  be  too  great  for  him  to  bear.  But 
at  last  the  old  man  himself  became  inspirited  for 
the  war,  by  Gottreich  and  his  betrothed  ;  and  he 
said  to  his  son  that  he  had  better  go  ;  that  he 
knew  he  had  Ions:  desired  it,  and  had  only  been 

~  v 

silent  through  love  for  him.  He  hoped,  with 
God's  aid,  to  be  able  to  discharge  his  pastoral 
duties  for  a  year,  and  thus  he  also  would  be 
doing  something  to  serve  his  country. 

Gottreich  departed,  trusting  to  the  autumnal 
strength  of  his  father's  life.  He  enlisted  as  a  com- 
mon soldier,  and  preached  also  wherever  he  was 

*  The  war  of  1813,  against  Napoleon,  to  secure  the  indepen- 
dence of  Germany. 


446      THE   OLD  PASTOR  AND  HIS  SON. 

able.  The  entrance  on  a  new  career  awakens 
new  energies  and  powers,  which  rapidly  unfold 
into  life  and  vigor.  Although  fortune  spared  him 
the  wounds  which  he  would  willingly  have  brought 
back  with  him  into  the  peaceful  future  of  his  life, 
in  memory  of  the  focus  of  his  youth,  as  it  were, 
yet  it  was  happiness  enough  to  take  part  in  the 
battles,  and,  like  an  old  republican,  to  fight  to- 
gether with  a  whole  nation,  for  the  common  cause. 
At  length,  in  the  beautiful  month  of  May,  the 
festivals  of  victory  and  peace  began  in  more  than 
one  nation  ;  and  Gottreich  was  unwilling  to  pass 
those  days  of  rejoicing  so  far  from  the  friends  who 
were  dearest  to  him.  He  longed  for  their  com- 

O 

pany,  that  his  joy  might  be  doubled  ;  so  he  took 
the  road  to  Heim.  Thousands  at  that  time  jour- 
neyed over  the  liberated  land,  from  a  happy  past 
to  a  happy  future.  But  there  were  few  who  saw, 
like  Gottreich,  so  pure  a  firmament  over  the  moun- 
tains of  his  native  valleys,  in  which  not  a  star  was 
missing,  but  every  one  of  them  was  bright  and 
twinkling.  Justa  had,  from  time  to  time,  sent 
him  the  little  annals  of  the  parsonage.  She  had 
written  how  she  longed  for  his  return,  and  how  his 

O 

father  rejoiced  ;  how  well  the  old  man  stood  the 
labors  of  his  office  ;  and  how  she  had  still  better 
secrets  in  store  for  him.  To  these  belonged,  per- 
haps, her  promise,  which  he  had  not  forgotten,  to 
give  him  her  hand  after  the  great  peace. 

With  such  prospects  before  him,  Gottreich  ever 


THE  OLD  PASTOR  AND  HIS  SON.     447 

enjoyed  in  thought  that  holy  evening  when  he 
should  see  the  sun  go  down  at  Heim, —  when  he 
should  arrive  unexpectedly,  to  relieve  the  old  man 
from  all  his  cares,  and  begin  to  prepare  the  tran- 
quil festivities  of  the  village.  As  he  was  thinking 
of  that  day's  meeting,  when  he  should  clasp  those 
fond  hearts  to  his  own,  and  as  the  mountains  above 
his  father's  village  were  seen  more  and  more  clear- 
ly in  relief  against  the  blue  sky,  the  Reminiscences 
of  the  best  hours  of  life,  which  he  had  written  for 
the  hour  of  death,  echoed  and  re-echoed  in  his 
soul ;  and,  as  he  went  along,  he  dwelt  particularly 
upon  one  among  them,  which  commemorated  the 
joy  of  meeting  again  here  below. 

A  shower  was  coming  up  behind  him,  of  which 
he  seemed  to  be  the  happy  messenger ;  for  the 
parched  ground,  the  drooping  flowers,  and  the 
ears  of  corn  had  long  been  thirsting  for  water 
from  the  warm  clouds.  A  parishioner  of  Heim, 
who  was  laboring  in  the  fields,  saluted  him  as  he 
passed,  and  expressed  joy  that  Gottreich  and  the 
rain  had  both  come  at  last.  Soon  he  caught  sight 
of  the  low  church-steeple,  peeping  above  the  clus- 
tered trees  ;  and  he  entered  upon  that  tract  in  the 
valley  where  the  parsonage  lay,  all  reddened  by 
the  evening  sun.  At  every  window  he  hoped  to 
see  his  betrothed  one,  thinking  perchance  she 
mifht  be  lookino-  out  on  the  sunset  before  the 

cr>  O 

storm  came  on.  As  he  drew  nearer,  he  hoped  to 
see  the  lattice  open,  and  Whitsuntide-brooms  in 


448      THE   OLD  PASTOR  AND  HIS  SON. 

the  chief  apartment ;  but  he  saw  nothing  of  all 
this. 

At  last,  he  quietly  entered  the  parsonage-house, 
and  slowly  opened  the  well-known  door.  The 
room  was  empty,  but  he  heard  a  noise  overhead. 
When  he  entered  the  chamber,  it  was  filled  with  a 
glow  from  the  west,  and  Justa  was  kneeling  by  the 
bed  of  his  father,  who  was  sitting  half  upright,  and 
looking,  with  a  stiff,  haggard  countenance,  toward 
the  setting  sun  before  him.  One  exclamation,  and 
a  clasp  of  her  lover  to  her  breast,  was  all  his  re- 
ception. His  father  stretched  out  his  withered 
hand  slowly,  and  said,  with  difficulty,  "  Thou  art 
come  at  the  right  time " ;  but  without  adding 
whether  he  spoke  of  the  preachings,  or  alluded  to 
their  approaching  separation.  Justa  hastily  related 
how  the  old  man  had  overworked  himself,  till  body 
and  spirit  had  given  way  together,  so  that  he  no 
longer  took  a  share  in  anything,  though  he  longed 
to  be  with  the  sharers  ;  and  how  he  lay  prostrate, 
with  broken  wings,  looking  upward,  like  a  helpless 
child.  The  old  man  had  grown  so  hard  of  hear- 
ing, that  she  could  say  all  this  in  his  presence. 

Gottreich  would  fain  have  infused  into  that  old 
and  once  strong  heart  the  fire  of  victory  which  was 
reflected  in  his  own  bosom  ;  but  he  heard  neither 
wish  nor  question  of  it.  The  old  man  continued 
to  gaze  steadily  upon  the  setting  sun,  and  at  last 
it  was  hidden  by  the  storm-clouds.  The  landscape 
grew  dark,  the  winds  stood  pent,  and  the  earth 


THE   OLD  PASTOR  AND  HIS   SON.     449 

was  oppressed.  Suddenly  there  came  a  gush  of 
rain  and  a  crash  of  thunder.  The  lightning  flashed 
around  the  old  man.  He  looked  up,  altered  and 
astonished.  "  Hist !  "  he  said  ;  "  I  hear  the  rain 
once  more.  Speak  quickly,  children,  for  I  shall 
soon  depart !  "  Both  his  children  clung  to  him, 
but  he  was  too  weak  to  embrace  them. 

And  now  warm,  refreshing  fountains  from  the 
clouds  bathed  all  the  sick  earth,  from  the  dripping 
trees  to  the  blades  of  grass.  The  sky  glistened 
mildly,  as  with  tears  of  joy,  and  the  thunder  went 
rumbling  away  behind  the  distant  mountains. 
The  sick  man  pointed  upward,  and  said :  "  Seest 
thou  the  majesty  of  God  ?  My  son,  now,  in  my 
last  hour,  strengthen  my  weary  soul  with  some- 
thing holy,  —  something  in  the  spirit  of  love,  and 
not  of  penance  ;  for  if  our  hearts  condemn  us  not, 
then  have  we  confidence  toward  God.  Say  some- 
thing to  me  rich  in  love  of  God  and  of  his 

O 

works." 

The  eyes  of  the  son  overflowed,  to  think  that 
he  should  read  at  the  death-bed  of  his  father  those 
Reminiscences  which  he  had  prepared  for  his  own. 
He  said  this  to  him,  but  the  old  man  answered. 
"  Hasten,  my  son  !  "  And,  with  faltering  voice, 
Gottreich  began  to  read  :  — • 

"  Remember,  in  thy  dark  hour,  those  times 
when  thou  hast  prayed  to  God  in  ecstasy,  and 
when  thou  hast  thought  on  him,  the  Infinite  One ; 
the  greatest  thought  of  finite  man." 


450     THE   OLD  PASTOR  AND  HIS   SON. 

Here  the  old  man  clasped  his  hands,  and  prayed 
low. 

"•  Hast  thou  not  known  and  felt  the  existence  of 
that  Being,  whose  infinity  consists  not  only  in  his 
power,  his  wisdom,  and  his  eternity,  but  also  in 
his  love,  and  in  his  justice  ?  Canst  thou  forget 
the  time  when  the  blue  sky,  by  day  and  by  night, 
opened  on  thee,  as  if  the  mildness  of  God  was 
looking  down  on  thee?  Hast  thou  not  felt  the 
love  of  the  Infinite,  when  he  veiled  himself  in 
his  image,  the  loving  hearts  of  men  ;  as  the  sun, 
which  reflects  its  light  not  on  the  moon  only,  but 
on  the  morning  and  evening  star  also,  and  on 
every  little  twinkler,  even  the  farthest  from  our 
earth  ? 

"  Canst  thou  forget,  in  the  dark  hour,  that  there 
have  been  mighty  men  among  us,  and  that  thou 
art  following  after  them  ?  Raise  thyself,  like  the 
spirits  who  stood  upon  their  mountains,  having  the 
storms  of  life  only  about  them,  never  above  them  ! 
Call  back  to  thee  the  kingly  race  of  sages  and 
poets,  who  have  inspirited  and  enlightened  nation 
after  nation  !  " 

"  Speak  to  me  of  our  Redeemer,"  said  the  fa- 
ther. 

'"  Remember  Jesus  Christ,  in  the  dark  hour. 
Remember  him,  who  also  passed  through  this  life. 
Remember  that  soft  moon  of  the  Infinite  Sun, 
given  to  enlighten  the  night  of  the  world.  Let 
life  be  hallowed  to  thee,  and  death  also  ;  for  he 


THE   OLD  PASTOR  AND  HIS   SON.     451 

shared  both  of  them  with  thee.  May  his  calm 
and  lofty  form  look  down  on  thee  in  the  last  dark- 
ness, and  show  thee  his  Father." 

A  low  roll  of  thunder  was  heard  from  clouds 
which  the  storm  had  left.  Gottreich  continued  to 
read  :  — 

"  Remember,  in  the  last  hour,  how  the  heart  of 
man  can  love.  Canst  thou  forget  the  love  where- 
with one  heart  repays  a  thousand  hearts,  and  the 
soul  during  a  whole  life  is  nourished  and  vivified 
from  another  soul  ?  Even  as  the  oak  of  a  hun- 
dred years  clings  fast  to  the  same  spot,  with  its 
roots,  and  derives  new  strength,  and  sends  forth 
new  buds  during  its  hundred  springs  ? " 

"  Dost  thou  mean  me  ?  "  said  the  father. 

"  I  mean  my  mother  also,"  replied  the  son. 

The  father,  thinking  on  his  wife,  murmured  very 
gently,  "  To  meet  again.  To  meet  again."  And 
Justa  wept  while  she  heard  how  her  lover  would 
console  himself  in  his  last  hours  with  the  reminis- 
cence of  the  days  of  her  love. 

Gottreich  continued  to  read  :  "  Remember,  in 
the  last  hour,  that  pure  being  with  whom  thy  life 
was  beautiful  and  great ;  with  whom  thou  hast 
wept  tears  of  joy  ;  with  whom  thou  hast  prayed 
to  God,  and  in  whom  God  appeared  unto  thee  ;  in 
whom  thou  didst  find  the  first  and  last  heart  of 
love  ;  —  and  then  close  thine  eyes  in  peace  !  " 

Suddenly,  the  clouds  were  cleft  into  two  huge 
black  mountains  ;  and  the  sun  looked  forth  from 


452      THE   OLD  PASTOR  AND  HIS  SON. 

between  them,  as  it  were,  out  of  a  valley  between 
buttresses  of  rock,  gazing  upon  the  earth  with 
its  joy-glistening  eye. 

"See!"  said  the  dying  man.    "What  a  glow!' 

*/          O  O 

"  It  is  the  evening  sun,  father." 

"  This  day  we  shall  see  one  another  again,'' 
murmured  the  old  man.  He  was  thinking  of  his 
wife,  long  since  dead. 

The  son  was  too  deeply  moved  to  speak  to 
his  father  of  the  blessedness  of  meeting  again  in 
this  world,  which  he  had  enjoyed  by  anticipation 
during  his  journey.  Who  could  have  courage 
to  speak  of  the  joys  of  an  earthly  meeting  to  one 
whose  rnind  was  absorbed  in  the  contemplation 
of  a  meeting  in  heaven  ? 

Gottreich,  suddenly  startled,  asked,  "  Father, 
what  ails  thee  ?  " 

"  I  do  think  thereon  ;  and  death  is  beautiful, 
and  the  parting  in  Christ,"  murmured  the  old 
man.  He  tried  to  take  the  hand  of  Gottreich, 
which  he  had  not  strength  to  press.  He  repeated, 
more  and  more  distinctly  and  emphatically,  "  O 
thou  blessed  God  !  "  until  all  the  other  luminaries 
of  life  were  extinguished,  and  in  his  soul  there 
stood  but  the  one  sun,  God  ! 

At  length  he  roused  himself,  and,  stretching  forth 
his  arm,  said  earnestly,  "  There !  there  are  three 
fair  rainbows  over  the  evening  sun  !  I  must  go 
after  the  sun,  and  pass  through  them  with  him." 
He  sank  backward,  and  was  gone. 


THE   OLD  PASTOR  AND  HIS  SON.      453 

At  that  moment  the  sun  went -down,  and  a 
broad  rainbow  glimmered  in  the  east. 

O 

"  He  is  gone,"  said  Gottreich,  in  a  voice  choked 
with  grief.  "  But  he  has  gone  from  us  unto  his 
God,  in  the  midst  of  great,  pious,  and  unmingled 
joy.  Then  weep  no  more,  Justa." 


His  youth  was  innocent ;  his  riper  age 

Marked  with  some  act  of  goodness  every  day  ; 

And,  watched  by  eyes  that  loved  him,  calm  and  sage, 
Faded  his  late  declining  years  away. 

Cheerful  he  gave  his  being  up,  and  went 

To  share  the  holy  rest  that  waits  a  life  well  spent. 

That  life  was  happy.     Every  day  he  gave 
Thanks  for  the  fair  existence  that  was  his  ; 

For  a  sick  fancy  made  him  not  her  slave, 
To  mock  him  with  her  phantom  miseries. 

No  chronic  tortures  racked  his  aged  limbs, 

For  luxury  and  sloth  had  nourished  none  for  him. 

Why  weep  ye,  then,  for  him,  who,  having  won 
The  bound  of  man's  appointed  years,  at  last, 

Life's  blessings  all  enjoyed,  life's  labors  done, 
Serenely  to  his  final  rest  has  passed,  — 

While  the  soft  memory  of  his  virtues  yet 

Lingers,  like  twilight  hues  when  the  bright  sun  is  set? 

W.  C.  BRYANT. 


REST   AT    EVENING. 

BY  ADELAIDE  A.  PROCTER. 

WHEN  the  weariness  of  life  is  ended, 
And  the  task  of  our  long  day  is  done, 
And  the  props,  on  which  our  hearts  depended, 

All  have  failed,  or  broken,  one  by  one  ; 
Evening  and  our  sorrow's  shadow  blended, 
Telling  us  that  peace  has  now  begun. 

How  far  back  will  seem  the  sun's  first  dawning, 
And  those  early  mists  so  cold  and  gray ! 

Half  forgotten  even  the  toil  of  morning, 
And  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day. 

Flowers  that  we  were  tending,  and  weeds  scorning, 
All  alike,  withered  and  cast  away. 

Vain  will  seem  the  impatient  heart,  that  waited 
Toils  that  gathered  but  too  quickly  round ; 

And  the  childish  joy,  so  soon  elated 

At  the  path  we  thought  none  else  had  found ; 

And  the  foolish  ardor,  soon  abated 

By  the  storm  which  cast  us  to  the  ground. 


REST  AT  EVENING. 


455 


Vain  those  pauses  on  the  road,  each  seeming 
As  our  final  home  and  resting-place ; 

And  the  leaving  them,  while  tears  were  streaming 
Of  eternal  sorrow  down  our  face  ; 

And  the  hands  we  held,  fond  folly  dreaming 
That  no  future  could  their  touch  efface. 

All  will  then  be  faded :  Night  will  borrow 
Stars  of  light  to  crown  our  perfect  rest ; 

And  the  dim  vague  memory  of  faint  sorrow 
Just  remain  to  show  us  all  was  best ; 

Then  melt  into  a  divine  to-morrow : 
O,  how  poor  a  day  to  be  so  blest ! 


Cambridge  :  Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


63 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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